Shelter from the Storm
by sodium-amytal
Summary: AU&NZ. When Carl runs into problems with his high school baseball coach, Negan, Rick is ready to write the guy off as a foul-mouthed asshole with zero redeeming qualities—except for maybe his cocky smirk and undeniable charisma. But after Negan ends up in the drunk tank one night at the King County Sheriff's Department, Rick discovers there's a lot more to Negan than meets the eye.
1. Chapter 1

Carl climbs through the living room window around 3 a.m. when the house is asleep and Rick is half-drunk on whiskey.

"Carl?"

Carl freezes momentarily before his timid voice shatters the silence. "Dad? What're you doing up?"

"I oughta be askin' you the same thing." Rick sets the glass on the counter and moves toward Carl. As he gets closer, he can tell the kid is stoned. The stench of marijuana smoke has seeped into his clothes and his hair. Carl's head is down, and Rick is sure that if it wasn't he'd be able to see the glazed pink of his eyes. "Who were you smoking with?"

Carl opens his mouth as though to protest but thinks better of it. "Nobody. Just some kids from school."

"I want names."

Carl swallows thickly. He still hasn't looked at Rick. "Ron. Ron Anderson."

"You hate Ron."

Ron is Carl's "archnemesis" (as Carl so aptly puts it) on the King County High School baseball team, the Saviors. Both boys pitch for the team, so naturally this puts them in a bit of competition with each other.

Carl shrugs, looking guilty. "He's okay."

Rick tilts his head. "Are you protecting someone?"

"No, I just—"

"How many times have you done this?" Because if it hadn't been for the nightmare, Rick wouldn't even be down here.

"Just tonight, I swear."

Rick could press that but chooses not to. "Who else were you with?" He knows forbidding Carl from hanging out with someone is almost impossible to enforce and dangerous at best. There's no better way to make your kid do something than to tell them _not_ to do it. But Rick would like to know for his own sake, so he can scowl menacingly at this mystery kid whenever he sees them.

Carl digs the toe of his left shoe into the carpet. He seems to understand there's not much use in lying. Rick's experience as the town sheriff has taught him how to sniff out lies like a bloodhound, but it also helps that fifteen-year-olds are not the best liars. "Her name is Enid."

A girl? Rick's both surprised and not. Teenage boys will do stupid things to fit in with their peers and impossibly stupid things to impress girls. The same holds true, Rick has learned, for grown-ass men.

Rick scrubs a hand through his unkempt hair and paces the floor. What would Lori do, he wonders. A thousand possibilities race through his mind. Should he forbid Carl from seeing Enid and experimenting with drugs, a surefire recipe for Carl to do exactly that? Should he play the role of the Cool Dad and say it's okay for Carl to smoke as long as he does it with parental supervision? Should he suggest Carl switch to booze instead?

His eyelids grow heavy, the whiskey beginning to sing its lullaby. Rick rubs his face. "You know you shouldn't mess around with that stuff."

Carl scoffs. "You're gonna give me the drugs talk, Captain Jack?"

Okay, so Rick hasn't been the best role model lately. That's on him. "You're on house arrest for two weeks."

Carl makes an exasperated noise.

"Wanna make it three?"

"No..."

"Alright. Go upstairs and go to bed."

Carl obeys, trudging up the stairs like a death row prisoner on his way to the chair. Rick watches him go, adds an awkward, "I love you," because he knows too well that the last words you say to someone can indeed be the last. He hears Carl's bedroom door slam shut and hopes the sound didn't wake Judith.

Rick listens, waits. Silence.

He heads back into the kitchen to take one last slug of whiskey from the bottle. He doesn't want to chance falling back asleep to that horrible memory, the nightmare that tore through his head and blasted him awake in a cold sweat.

As the bitter liquid coats Rick's throat, he wonders if Carl's experimentation with pot goes beyond typical teenage curiosity. Does Carl get the nightmares too? Rick wonders how bad they must be—his own dreams have Carl's beat, no contest; there are few things as scarring as being called to the scene of your wife's fatal car wreck—but Carl was thirteen when Lori died. The loss, the grief, the void where Lori once was could have fucked Carl up pretty badly.

Rick climbs the stairs and settles into bed—the bed he shared with Lori. The alcohol doesn't keep the thoughts at bay, but it does lull him into sleep, and his subconscious takes care of the rest.

* * *

In the morning, Rick drags himself out of bed and knocks on Carl's bedroom door. When Carl doesn't answer, panic grips in Rick's chest, and he swings the door open.

"What?" Carl groans, lying in bed and pulling the covers over his head.

"It's time to get up."

"Just five more minutes?"

"Did you forget about last night?" Rick says in his Serious Sheriff voice. "Get up. Now."

Rick can hear Carl's sullen grumbles even as he heads down to Judith's room. Three-year-old Judith is much easier to rouse from sleep than Carl. Rick reaches into the bed, picks her up, rests her weight against his chest. "Good morning, sunshine," he murmurs, making her giggle. "At least you're happy to see me."

Rick fixes a bowl of Cheerios for Judith once they get into the kitchen. He's preparing bacon and scrambled eggs when Carl finally comes downstairs. Carl doesn't speak; the only indications he's in the room are the soft smacks of his feet against the tile floor and the slide of his chair as he pulls it out from the table. He's probably embarrassed about being caught last night and angry at Rick for punishing him.

Rick tries to mend fences while they eat. "Is everything... okay?" he asks, treading awkward emotional territory. "I mean, if there's somethin' goin' on, you know you can talk to me, right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Carl says. His dark hair hangs over his eyes.

"If you want, you can talk to Denise. She can't tell anyone."

Rick saw a shrink, Dr. Denise Cloyd, after Lori's death, mostly for the anti-depressants. But it had helped to talk about things, especially in the beginning when the pain was so raw, like a wound he never wanted anyone to touch.

Carl shakes his head. "I'm fine, Dad," he insists with a bit more emotion. "It's just—it's nothing."

"Sounds like somethin'."

Carl pushes around the food on his plate, deliberating whether or not to continue. He scowls as he says, "I'm not starting tonight's game."

Rick blinks. "Because of me?"

When Carl played in little league, he wanted his dad in the stands cheering him on. Now he's probably embarrassed when Rick shows up. It's not like Rick is one of _those_ sports dads who gets into drunken fistfights with the other parents. But ever since Lori died, Rick has lost control of the internal valve that filters his thoughts from becoming words. On multiple occasions he has shut down overbearing, loud, and drunk fathers with a few choice words, or even just a look.

This, however, makes him somewhat of a liability for Carl.

"No, 'cause Coach Negan's a douchebag."

"Language."

Carl rolls his eyes, shaking his head like he doesn't know why he bothered to have this conversation if Rick's going to nitpick semantics. "Whatever. He's a jerk. He hasn't put me in the last two games, and he won't do it tonight. But he'll put stupid _Ron_ in."

"You want me to have a word with your coach?"

"God, no, that's embarrassing. Everyone'll make fun of me."

"I can do it in private. Your teammates don't have to know."

Carl scoffs. "Everyone knows everything sooner or later. Remember when Ron's dad went to jail?"

Rick remembers, because it was prison, not just jail, and he made the arrest. Pete Anderson had beaten the hell out of some poor bastard in a barfight and earned himself five years in prison for the assault and the cocaine Rick found on him while shoving him into the squad car. It was all anyone in town could talk about for weeks.

"Alright, if you want me to stay out of it, I'll stay out of it."

* * *

Rick doesn't stay out of it. He sits in the stands at the high school baseball field alongside Jessie Anderson, mother of Ron and wife of jailbird Pete. Jessie is small and blonde and perky and flirts a little too hard with Rick since her husband went to prison two months ago. She's always been somewhat flirty with Rick after Lori passed, but in a harmless, tender way. But now there's a bit of pointed invitation to her smiles and casual touches.

She has a triskele tattoo on her left shoulder, which Rick only sees because she's wearing a tanktop. Her skin, despite being showcased almost every time Rick sees her, is pale white like a porcelain doll. It's entirely possible Coach Negan put Jessie's son on the mound so she would show up to the game.

"How are you doing?" Jessie asks during the top of the fourth inning.

Rick knows Jessie would just love it if he fell apart in front of her so she could comfort him, but he's past that stage. There's an emptiness in his chest now where Lori used to be, a dull ache that occasionally needs to be satisfied with Jack Daniel's.

"I'm fine," Rick says, which is what people say when they are absolutely not fine. But Rick is fine, for the most part. Sometimes he wakes up wishing someone were there with him, which Denise told him is completely normal.

Beside Jessie is her ten-year-old son, Sam, who whines, "I'm bored," and slumps against her like a bag of peat moss.

Jessie strokes his hair. "Shh, baby, we're gonna watch your brother play." She looks at Rick and gives him a smile as if to say, 'Kids, right?' Rick smiles back, albeit awkwardly.

"But baseball is boring," Sam complains.

Rick exhales a tiny laugh. High school baseball isn't the best example of the emotional heights of the game, and it's hard to get too invested in the major-league season when your local team has been consistently mediocre for the last fifteen years or so.

"I know, sweetie," Jessie's saying, "but it's important to Ron."

True to Carl's words, Ron is the Saviors' starting pitcher against the opposing team, the Wolves. Rick secretly hopes Ron will fail hard and force Coach Negan to put Carl in as a relief pitcher, give the kid a chance to hold the Wolves at bay and demonstrate his skills.

But Ron doesn't crash and burn. He almost pitches a no-hitter until one kid gets a piece of the ball and knocks it into left field. Rick watches the Saviors' dugout. Carl's leaning against the fence, looking bored and angry at the world. Which is the usual expression for a teenager, so Rick doesn't read too much into it.

Then some other kid starts throwing in the bullpen, and Rick's heart sinks. Ron is taken off the mound in the sixth inning after some of the Wolves started hitting off him.

No longer interested in the game now that her son has been retired, Jessie turns to Rick. "Are you having better luck than me?"

Rick feels like he's walked into a movie fifteen minutes late. "What?"

"With the kids, I mean. Now that you're..." She's struggling to find a nice way to say 'alone' and coming up short. "Like me."

 _Sweetheart, I'm nothing like you_ , Rick wants to say, but he knows enough to keep his mouth shut this time.

"I mean, I know juggling two kids and work and everything can be hard, and, God, Judith isn't even in school yet, how do you—"

Rick shrugs, cuts her off. "I manage, I guess. Carol helps out a lot. She watches Judith when I can't."

Rick's next-door neighbor, Carol Peletier, has lived alongside the Grimes family since they moved in. An older woman with short, greying hair, she invokes images of homemade cookies and snuggly sweaters. In the weeks after Lori died, Carol would drop off casseroles and meatloaves for dinner, anticipating Rick's complete helplessness in the wake of tragedy.

Jessie smiles. "That's great. I'm glad you've got somebody." She runs a hand through her hair. "Is there anything you need? I could bring over some dinner once or twice a week, take that off your plate."

"You don't have to do that." As a byproduct of Rick's incompetence in the kitchen, he and Carl know their pizza delivery guy on a first-name basis. His name is Glenn, and Rick's tips have probably single-handedly paid for his college tuition. "We're okay. Honest."

Jessie tries another smile but it falls flat. Rick realizes she may have been trying to arrange a date-like sort of thing with him. How is he so oblivious to female attention? He notices the lingering touches, the nervous smiles, the quick eye-contact, but it doesn't register in his brain as attraction. He assumes it's all symptomatic of pity for him, and there might be some of that there, but it's been two years and maybe these women assume he's fair game now, that his grief has been tapped like a keg and he's back on the market.

Except he still wears his wedding ring, mostly to ward off this sort of thing like a crucifix against vampires feeding off his mourning and assumed male helplessness.

Rick wants to apologize for brushing her off, but that would be a tacit acknowledgement that Jessie was trying to make a move, and he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable, so he doesn't.

After the game, Rick finds Coach Negan loitering near the home team dugout. Negan is big and broad, with salt-and-pepper facial hair, and thick forearms hidden beneath the sleeves of his leather jacket. Who the fuck wears a leather jacket in the Georgia heat, Rick wonders. He looks pretty much the opposite of what you'd expect a high school baseball coach to look like.

Negan has a baseball bat slung over one shoulder while he whistles a tune Rick vaguely recognizes but can't place. He turns at the sound of Rick's footsteps. His dark eyebrows shoot up as a sinister grin cuts across his face like a knife. Rick opens his mouth to introduce himself, but Negan stops him.

"No, no, let me guess," he says, his voice gravelly with a hint of a drawl. He points the barrel of the bat at Rick and says, "You're Carl Grimes' dad."

Rick isn't surprised. Small towns and all that. "Sheriff Rick Grimes." He nods and offers a hand. Negan shakes, because that's what you do.

"Well, _Sheriff_ , what can I do for you?" Negan says the word with a little attitude, and Rick feels a twitch of annoyance.

"I was just wondering why Carl hasn't been put in the last couple games," Rick says with a shrug, playing casual.

"How do I put this tactfully?" Negan scratches his chin. "Your kid sucks. I could time his fastball with a calendar."

Rick wants to jump to Carl's defense, but maybe Negan's right. And that's a startling thought for a parent to have, that their child might be terrible at something they love.

"He's part of the team," Rick says. "He should get to play."

Negan chuckles, his grin widening. "I'm coaching teenagers here, Rick, not kindergarteners. If a kid plays well and earns for me, I put him in. If he doesn't, he warms the bench." Negan likes to gesture while he talks, and as he does the bat moves with him, as though part of his body. Rick feels oddly on edge, like Negan's waving around a loaded gun. "What are you, one of those touchy-feely daddies who thinks no one should get their feelings hurt? No one should win or lose? Hell, maybe we shouldn't even keep score."

Carl was right about this guy. Major douchebag.

Negan tilts his head, giving Rick a curious look. "This," he says, gesturing with his bat to the field, "is my domain. Now, you seem like a smart guy, Sheriff, so you tell me: would you send a dopey, uncoordinated cadet to do the work of a hardened officer?"

"They're just kids," Rick reminds him, struggling to keep his tone even. "Not cops."

"Well, I'm not an English teacher, so excuse the shit out of my piss-poor metaphor or simile or whatever."

In his time on the force, Rick has dealt with plenty of back-talk and disrespect—it comes with the job—but something about Negan irritates him far beyond the angry tirades of the raving offenders he's handcuffed and put away. Maybe because Negan's so goddamn smirky while he talks. Maybe it's the ridiculous leather jacket, or the way he wields the bat like an extension of himself, or the way he sizes Rick up and decides, yeah, he could take him.

Negan's smirking at him, and Rick wants to punch him right in his stupidly-white, perfect teeth.

 _Don't make things worse for Carl,_ Lori reminds him, as though she's watching him from the afterlife and feels personally responsible for the dumb-ass decisions he makes in her absence.

Rick's fists clench at his sides. "Just let Carl play next time."

"Or what? You gonna arrest me, _Sheriff_?" Negan points the barrel of the bat at Rick again, poking him in the chest.

A hot band of rage tightens in Rick's belly. He looks at the bat, then looks at Negan. Is this fucking guy for real? If Rick were wearing his sheriff's uniform, if he wasn't dressed like a suburban dad, would Negan still goad him like this?

Probably. Big guys like Negan think they're hot shit.

"Give me a reason," Rick almost growls.

Negan sees something in Rick's eyes and backs off, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his mouth. "Wow. You do not scare easy. I like that."

Rick just glares at him, unmoving.

Negan chuckles and rests his bat against his shoulder. "See you next week, Rick." He turns on his heel and walks away, whistling a jaunty tune.

Rick's pretty sure he hates everything about Coach Negan.


	2. Chapter 2

Because the world has an uncanny knack for kicking Rick while he's down, the next time he runs into Negan is Wednesday night. He'd been coming back from a late-night disturbance call when Officer Abraham Ford told him he'd picked up some "loud, intoxicated numbnuts" at a local bar and threw him in the drunk tank for the night. Rick nodded, went to make sure the guy hadn't choked on his own vomit, and, lo and behold, who's lounging in the cell but Coach Negan? And still wearing that goddamn leather jacket.

A smarmy grin cracks across Negan's face when he sees Rick. "Well, well, well, if it ain't Rick the prick."

"Coach."

"You know this guy?" Ford's partner, Officer Tara Chambler, is keeping watch over the holding cells.

Rick looks back at her. "We've met." His face says he's deeply regretful over this fact.

Tara mirrors his expression and glances back down at her phone.

"It certainly is a pleasure seeing your cheery face again," Negan says.

Rick knows sarcasm when he hears it. "Have one too many tonight?"

"Some people just can't hold their liquor."

"I hadn't pegged you for a lightweight."

Negan sneers at him, amused. "I'm just peachy keen. I was talking about Simon. You know him?"

"I've seen him around." Rick recalls bringing Simon in for drunk and disorderlies, barfights, and one instance of indecent exposure. He leans against the wall, peering at Negan through the bars

"That high-horse motherfucker thinks he can beat me at ping pong? I had to shut that shit down."

Rick makes a show of looking inside the cell. There are a half dozen cots, only one of which is occupied. "Seems like you got the place to yourself."

Negan scoffs. "He's a sneaky little cocksucker. Slipped out the door by the time your grunt got there."

"So you're in a holding cell over a game of ping pong?" Rick tries not to laugh, really, he does, but it's just so hard.

"You spend all day shuffling words around you can make anything sound stupid as shit."

Rick notices a red blemish about the size of a fist along the right side of Negan's jaw. It's camouflaged by his facial hair, which is why Rick didn't notice it at first. "He clocked you?"

"He got lucky." Negan lifts a hand to his wounded face as though protecting it from further damage.

If Rick truly had a choice here, he would go home and let Negan suffer until morning. Abraham could watch him overnight. Oh, Abraham would have a fucking field day with this douchenozzle. Even Tara would probably enjoy screwing with him.

But Negan is Carl's coach, and Rick acting like a shithead to him would mean Carl taking the brunt of Negan's anger. Carl is already at a disadvantage due to his lack of pitching finesse, so Rick can only imagine how things might escalate if Negan had revenge as a motive. Rick can't let that happen, no matter how much he dislikes Negan.

Rick leaves the room and returns with ice in a ziplocked plastic bag for Negan's bruised face. He offers up the bag through the bars of the cell. Negan stares at it, his brow furrowed, like he thinks Rick's trying to pull something shifty here.

After eyeing Rick curiously for a moment—seriously, Rick feels a little violated—Negan takes the ice pack and settles it against his jaw. "Took you long enough."

Which is officially the shittiest thank you Rick has ever received, and he has a teenage son. "You're welcome."

Rick walks away from the cell and over to the desk where Tara's sitting. "Did Ford book him?"

"He wanted to. There was a bit of a dick-measuring contest." Tara smirks, perhaps remembering said contest. "But then Grease Lightning over there puked into a trashcan, and Abe took pity on him."

Rick can't stop the snickering laugh that spills from his mouth. He shakes his head in amusement, trying to picture this walking, talking garbage can actually puking into one.

Rick glances over his shoulder at Negan, who scowls at him, but there's something deeper there. Maybe shame?

"Hey, um, Rick?" Tara says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"So... about the wedding. It's next month. On the fourth. Saturday." Tara is engaged to her girlfriend of four years, Rosita Espinosa. She showed up last week with a modest diamond ring on her finger and a huge smile. "It would really mean a lot to me if you came. But I totally get it if you don't want to, and please don't make yourself miserable on my account, I swear I won't—"

Rick smiles, holds up a hand to stop Tara's awkward gush of words. "It's okay. I'll think about it."

Rick has avoided weddings since Lori's death, because the last thing he needs is a blistering reminder of the lifetime of happiness stolen away from him. Last year, Glenn Rhee (yes, the pizza delivery boy) invited Rick to his wedding—the bride-to-be one Maggie Greene, the town's most esteemed veterinarian—but Rick had to politely decline the offer, because he knew he'd either stay sober and cry through the ceremony harder than anyone in the audience has a right to, or he'd hit the bar and end up being loudly cynical about marriage and love and probably throw up on the wedding cake.

"You don't have to bring anyone," Tara reminds him. "It's super casual. I'm gonna wear Chucks underneath my dress."

"I promise I'll think about it."

Tara smiles sheepishly, like she's embarrassed they even had this conversation. "Thanks." She gives him an appreciative nod and slides out of the chair, disappearing down the corridor.

When Tara is gone, Negan speaks up. "Your wife... The kid's mother. Is she..."

"She's gone," Rick says, so quietly he can barely hear himself.

Negan scoffs. "No wonder the kid's all fucked up. He lost his parents."

"He's got me."

"Really? 'Cause that's not what I've been hearing."

"He talks to you? About me?" Rick's almost offended that his own son won't talk to him but instead confide in his douchebag coach. What the fuck, Carl?

"He's told me enough. I mean, you gotta read between the lines with a kid like Carl, but apparently you and I both like to drink our problems away."

"I'm not the one in the drunk tank," Rick points out.

"No, you're just pushing your kid away," Negan says, sarcastically dismissive. Before Rick can argue, Negan adds, "How long have you been flying solo?"

"Two years." Actually, it's been two years, three months, and eighteen days, but who's counting?

"Two years?" Negan says, looking at Rick in amused disbelief. His head does a weird nodding thing that punctuates each word. "Wow. How in the holy hell did you make it this far?"

Rick shrugs. He moves closer and wraps a hand around one of the bars, as though needing the support. "You just... survive. Somehow. Keep moving. It doesn't get better, but you get stronger."

"That's some primo therapy bullshit." Negan chuckles, but his heart's not in it. "How long have you been drinking the Kool-Aid?" His left hand is draped over his knee, his thumb brushing over the underside of his fingers. Rick suspects Negan's hiding some sort of contraption to help him break out of the cell, but he sees the tiny glint of silver in Negan's hand, a wedding ring rolled around in his palm.

"You lost somebody too." It's supposed to be a question, but it doesn't come out like one. "How long?"

Negan stays quiet for a few seconds, staring at the ring as though he can see a better life inside of it. "One year to the day."

Damn.

Rick remembers the one-year "anniversary" of Lori's death. He was a goddamn mess. If memory serves him correctly, he spent the day in bed and swallowed down drinks strong enough to send a DeLorean back in time. Then Carol let herself in with the key Lori had given her ages ago, and Carl and Judith were there and things were... not okay, but manageable.

The annual resurgence of that awful day had been softened because Rick had people. Does Negan have people? He's in a detox cell in a shitty Georgia town police department on the anniversary of his wife's death, so that's a pretty strong argument to the contrary.

And the fact that Negan just sort of _appeared_ in their sleepy town without any known ties is particularly distressing. But it makes sense Negan would start over somewhere new instead of staying in a house filled with memories like latent landmines.

Rick's house, on the other hand, is a fucking minefield. Every day erodes the scant traces of Lori that remain. On bad days, Rick wants to put up red velvet ropes and cordon it off like something in a museum. A monument to his sadness.

Poor, pathetic bastards, both of them.

"What was her name?" Rick asks, treading carefully, but odds are Negan's been dwelling on her all day. The wound is already open.

"Lucille."

Rick nods. "Lori." He wants to find something poignant in the fact both names start with the same letter, but what would it be? They're just two unlucky saps who drew the short straw. "No kids?"

"We didn't get that far. But Lucille was goddamn baby crazy," Negan says with palpable fondness. He tips his head back and chuckles, as though remembering something. "Some chicks have that big, elaborate wedding fantasy planned out. But Lucille had baby names and clothes and toys and all that shit locked down before we ever talked about it."

Rick drags a chair from across the room and sits near the door of the cell. He hasn't really talked about Lori with anyone aside from Denise. It might be beneficial to confide in someone who rejects 'primo therapy bullshit,' as Negan so aptly put it.

Negan continues, rolling the ring between his fingers like he wants to put it on but isn't sure what that would mean. "She used to nag me about swearing, saying if I didn't clean up my language our kid's first word would be 'fuck' or 'shit' or some other excellent demonstration of vulgarity." The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile that makes Rick ache.

Negan is lost for a moment in this recollection before turning his head to Rick. "You're still here? Fan-fucking-tastic, my friend. Why don't you get in on this? What's the memory that plays on a little movie screen in your head? You know, the one that makes you wanna stick that gun in your mouth and call it a day. Sharing is caring."

Negan's wearing that stupid smirk again. Rick wants to slap it off his face, but it's probably a defense mechanism. He read somewhere that the physical act of smiling is supposed to improve your mood. Rick's calling horseshit on that one, but he hasn't actually tried it.

Rick opens his mouth, closes it, swallows.

"C'mon," Negan coaxes. "Don't get all limp-dicked now. What's that thing therapists always say? Work through your shit."

Rick highly doubts Denise would phrase it that way. He scrubs a hand over his mouth—the bristles of his facial hair scrape against his palm, he really should shave more often—and starts over. "Judith was... unplanned. Lori didn't want to have another baby. But one night we were trying to decide what to do about the pregnancy, and she found this box she made back when Carl was born. It was about the size of a shoebox, and inside was a bunch of pictures we took of him through the first few years. His first crayon drawings were in there... A couple baby teeth Lori saved. It was nice, looking back and seeing how excited we were to have a kid. I guess Lori saw something there that changed her mind."

Rick exhales a breath, a little shaky after the painful excursion to the past. For a moment, Negan says nothing, which is a fucking miracle, but of course he has to open his dumb mouth, because the world may actually end if he's not talking.

"That is some Hallmark shit! I'm dead serious: that brought a tear to my eye. A-plus-plus!"

God, what a dickhead.

But it's not like Negan's going to openly cry or express an emotion other than arrogance in front of Rick, so what else is he to do but paper over it with sleazy charm until it hardens to bone? If he's been doing this since Lucille's death, Negan may actually be dead inside.

There is nothing quite as sad as a person whom you can see right through.

"Alright, your turn," Rick says, raking a hand through his hair.

Negan drops his head back and laughs as though Rick has told him the most hilarious joke in the entire world. "Slow your fucking roll, Rick. I'm not easy. You don't expect me to put out on the first date, do you?"

Rick isn't entirely sure what he was expecting, but this seems about right.

"Well, I think we've made a real breakthrough today," Rick says. He rises from the chair, moves it back behind the desk. Negan isn't going to give him any more, so staying here seems pointless. Talking about this has drawn fresh blood from Rick's open wound, and he needs to recuperate with Carl and Judith. Negan will just have to fend for himself. "But it looks like our time is up."

"Toodle-oo, Sheriff," Negan says, and if there was any trace of melancholy in his voice before, it's gone now. He said too many real things, and now he's retreating to the protective fort of sarcasm and assholery.

Rick shoves his arms into his jacket and leaves Negan there to stew in his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm starting for tomorrow's game," Carl tells Rick on Thursday night over dinner. He's trying to be casual about it, like it's no big deal, but Rick can tell Carl is ecstatic.

"That's great. I'm proud of you."

Carl hides a smile, staring down at his plate and pushing food around with his fork. "You didn't... say anything to Coach, did you?"

"Me?" Rick gasps, playing coy.

"I heard he got arrested last night," Carl says. Rick doesn't bother correcting him. "While you were on duty."

"We exchanged words."

Carl sighs.

"Not everything's about you, y'know. Negan and I talked, sure, but it had nothing to do with you."

Carl studies his father's face. In his defense, it does sound pretty suspicious. "So what else could you guys possibly talk about?"

"Y'know, stuff... Things."

Somehow, Carl is not convinced, but he offers no argument and eats in suspicious silence.

Rick notices activity at Carol's house. Curious, he rises from the table and heads to the window for a better view. There's a man heading up the front steps of Carol's house, a man Rick recognizes as Morgan Jones, the owner of the local diner. Morgan is dressed in a crisp khaki shirt and blue jeans, but what's surprising about him isn't what he's wearing, but what he's carrying: a bouquet of white roses.

 _Hello_.

"What's wrong?" Carl asks.

"I think Carol has a date." Rick tries not to get sucked into the town's gossip mill or treating his neighbors' lives like soap operas, but, hey, he ought to know what goes on next-door, at least. For his kids' sakes.

"With who?" Carl's not getting up from the table, just craning his neck to peek out the window.

"Morgan, from the diner."

"Huh. Weird," Carl says, sounding like he could not possibly care less.

Morgan rings the doorbell. After a few seconds, Carol opens the door. She's wearing a flowery blouse and a long, flowing skirt. Rick can see the glint of her small earrings under the porch light. Morgan hands her the roses, and she accepts them with a wide smile. Then they disappear inside, and Rick is left a little bewildered.

When the game starts on Friday night, Rick finds an empty seat next to Carol and her daughter Sophia, which spares him from Jessie's uncomfortable flirtation. He's got Judith with him tonight, which means if he sat alone he'd be swarmed by single women looking for a conversation starter. Better to stick with Carol.

Sophia's texting or browsing Facebook or whatever teenage girls do on their phones.

"Sophia," Rick says in greeting.

"Hey," she says without even looking up from the screen.

Carol smiles at Rick as he sits beside her. "So who's Morgan?" Rick asks.

Carol sighs like she's sick of being asked, but there's a smile at the edges of her mouth. Carol divorced her husband, Ed, five years ago. Rick thinks this might be her first foray into dating since.

"He's just a friend," Carol says, her face reddening with chagrin.

"You had him over last night."

"He wanted to try my cookies."

"Is that what they're calling it now?" Rick jokes.

"Ugh, gross," Sophia whines.

Carol chuckles and playfully nudges Rick with her shoulder. "Stop it. It's nothing serious. I went to the diner the other day and offered him a bit of friendly critique on the cookies. I said he should try to make them with applesauce, and we got to talking. It's no big deal."

"Guys don't bring roses for 'no big deal.'"

"You were snooping? Peeping's a crime, Sheriff."

"He was at the door," Rick protests. "Plain sight."

Carol gives him a look that tells him to stop while he's ahead.

"Should I find someone else to watch Judith, then? I mean, if this is—"

"No, no, please, keep bringing her. She's a delight. No trouble at all. What about you?," Carol says, steering the conversation away from her love life to Rick's. "Have you thought about... It doesn't have to be serious."

Rick shrugs, surreptitiously glancing around at the surrounding moms. Not that he would get involved with a married woman, but a lot of them are what most men would consider attractive, and Rick's trying to see if any particular woman jumps out at him from the crowd, even if being with her was impossible. Just the spark of desire again, the need to be with someone.

But none of them are Lori. None of them have her smile or her laugh or her eyes or her weird obsession with collectible plates.

He shakes his head, coming up empty. "I don't... I'm not interested in anyone."

"Have you tried online dating? There's a whole big world out there beyond King County."

Another shrug. Sometimes Rick thinks Lori's death broke the part of him that develops attachments to people beyond those he already cares for. It's not so much an unwillingness to go there or feeling like he's betraying Lori by becoming interested in someone else, just an incapability. An emotional handicap.

"Maybe that part of my life is over," Rick says simply.

Carol pats his knee. It doesn't feel flirtatious, just friendly. "Oh, stop it, you're too young to be thinking like that."

During the game, Carl pitches five innings and strikes out two, giving up only four hits and two walks. Rick can tell leaving Carl in that long was probably a struggle for Negan, who tends to take pitchers out once they start throwing balls instead of strikes.

The Saviors don't win, but that's clearly the fault of the relief and closing pitchers, who seem to work in tandem to allow the Wolves to score the winning runs.

Rick debates going to the dugout to talk to Negan after the game. It's not like Negan's busy talking to other parents; most all of the dads give him a wide berth, probably because he looks like a bouncer at an S&M club. But Rick wants to thank him for giving Carl a chance to play. He's got a slight feeling that decision had something to do with their conversation.

Rick lets Carol hold Judith for a moment while he heads over to the dugout. Negan's lighting up a cigarette when Rick approaches. "You allowed to smoke here?" Rick wonders, because he highly doubts that. But it's not like anyone else here would dare call Negan on it.

Negan offers a shrug, exhales a gust of smoke. "You off-duty?"

"I'll let it slide this time," Rick says with a half-smile, putting his hands up as if to say 'take it easy.'

Negan leans against the fence and takes another long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs.

"I wanted to thank you for letting Carl play."

"You think that had somethin' to do with you?" Negan chuckles. "Hate to break your heart, Rick, but I'm gonna go ahead and take all the credit for that one."

Rick tilts his head. "So you just happened to put Carl in the game after we had our little talks?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely. It's called a coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences."

"Well, you sure as shit better start. 'Cause they're real." Negan takes another drag, blowing out the smoke in Rick's face.

Rick winces, his eyes stinging, but he doesn't back down.

"Dad!" Carl jogs up to them, trying to look casual, but Rick can see the panic on his face as his gaze flicks from him to Negan. "C'mon, let's get Judith and go. I've got homework."

Carl only uses the homework excuse as a last resort escape hatch out of an awkward or boring situation. For some reason, Carl doesn't want Rick talking to Negan.

Rick meets Negan's eyes and gives him an appreciative nod before walking away. He can still smell the lingering smoke even when he gets in the car.

* * *

Rick goes to the diner the next afternoon for lunch, because he's curious about Morgan's side of the story regarding his not-date with Carol. Rick usually feels like a doofus rolling up off-duty in a vehicle with "sheriff" plastered across the sides in big, impossible to miss letters. But there's a sleek, black vintage Impala two spaces across from him, and suddenly Rick doesn't feel like the biggest attention whore in the lot.

When Rick takes his usual seat at the counter, there's an insufferable, leather-clad surprise waiting for him a few stools down.

"Well, well, well," Negan says, sounding way too pleased with himself. "We meet again."

Rick sighs. "Negan." It's not like he hates the guy—hearing Negan's tragic backstory certainly softened Rick's opinion of him—but they're not exactly buddies either. And the fact that they keep running into each other is just weird. Sure, it's a small town, but it's not _that_ small.

"Don't sound so happy to see me." Negan actually slides over to take the empty seat next to Rick.

Morgan appears behind the counter to pour Rick some coffee. "Ah, Rick, good to see you again. I see you've met Negan."

"And you've met Carol," Rick says.

Morgan smiles, serene and calming, though that's pretty much his default expression, but now there's a bit of a twinkle in his eye at the mention of Carol. "She's quite a woman."

It's definitely serious, Rick thinks. Good for her. Good for Morgan, too. Morgan divorced his wife, Jenny, last year; they share custody of their ten-year-old son, Duane.

"And she's one hell of a cook," Morgan adds with a chuckle.

"Duane and Sophia get along?" Rick asks.

Morgan gives him a knowing smile. "Baby steps, Rick."

It feels strange having this friendly conversation with Negan eavesdropping like the world's most awkward third wheel. But it's better than being alone with him.

So of course Morgan asks Rick, "What'll it be today?"

 _Please don't leave_ , Rick wants to beg, but he orders the daily special—a grilled lemon pepper chicken and bacon sandwich—then Morgan's off to the grill, and Rick is out a comfortable conversation partner.

Damn it.

Negan takes that as his cue. He drinks from his coffee in a long, dramatic swallow and says, "Why don't we just skip this part, Sheriff?"

"What?"

"The part where everything's uncomfortable and weird 'cause we don't know what we're supposed to say to each other. Let's just fast-forward through that shit and be friends."

Is this real life?

"I don't think people can do that," Rick says.

Negan scoffs. "You can do whatever the fuck you want, Rick. It's your life, and you're the goddamn king."

"I don't feel much like one."

"This is King County, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but it ain't a county, and there's no kings. Whoever was in charge of namin' the place missed the mark."

"You've got an awful hard-on for semantics, don't you?"

Rick's just going to ignore that. "Why do you want to be friends?"

"Probably a smart idea to get in good with the sheriff."

"Sounds like you've got somethin' to hide."

"Everybody does. We're all sinners, no saints."

"Even Lucille?" As soon as it leaves his mouth, Rick knows that was the wrong thing to say.

But Negan doesn't punch Rick in the mouth or tell him to go fuck himself, just smirks wryly, as though remembering something. "She was a dirty girl."

Rick almost protests that Lori was a saint, but he knows that's just the rose-colored glasses of his memory. When he really thinks about it, really digs into the glossed-over archives of his brain, he remembers the quarrels, the silent treatments, her tendency to say shitty things she probably didn't mean just to win an argument.

Morgan arrives with Rick's sandwich, and it looks glorious. He tops off Negan's coffee, and Negan orders a slice of cherry pie.

"Pie for lunch?" Rick asks, incredulous.

Negan shrugs. "Love me some pie."

Rick has a feeling that's a double entendre, but he can't imagine why Negan would offer it up.

The slice arrives topped with more whipped cream than is entirely necessary, which doesn't come standard, and Rick realizes Negan must come here often enough for Morgan to remember how he likes his pie.

While they eat, Rick asks, "What's with the jacket? You tryin' out for the lead role in Grease?"

"It was a gift," Negan says in an oddly quiet voice that tells Rick he's hit a nerve.

"Sorry," Rick murmurs.

Negan glances over at him. "You still wear your ring?"

Rick checks his hands and sees the silver band around his third finger. Sometimes he forgets it's even there, sometimes it's all he can think about. "Yeah. Keeps people away." He looks at Negan's hands. "You don't wear yours?"

"I can keep people away all by my lonesome," Negan says, giving him a sly, toothy grin.

Rick wants to point out that Negan hasn't been keeping _him_ away, though their constant meetings are mutual. But while Rick's intentional run-ins with Negan have purpose, Negan seems to end up in Rick's orbit, like they're magnetically drawn to each other.

"Where did you come from?" Rick wonders, because Negan's origins have been gnawing like a rat at his mind for quite some time.

"Hell," Negan says around a mouthful of pie.

"Well, you dress the part." Rick chuckles. "I'm serious."

"So am I. Hell, Michigan. Look at a map sometime, cowboy."

Rick takes his phone out of his pocket and Googles that to make sure he's not being jerked around here. Holy shit, it's a real place. Negan actually dropped out of Satan's bunghole into King County. What a time to be alive.

Rick shakes his head in disbelief, a little laugh escaping his throat. Of fucking course Negan would hail from a place called Hell; Rick always thought the phrase 'devilish smirk' was hyperbole until he saw Negan.

"I guess you're used to small towns, huh?" Rick says when he can finally find words that aren't _you've got to be fucking kidding me._

"You know what they say about old habits."

"So you also know people are probably wondering why we're talking to each other."

"And I could not possibly give one hot, buttery fuck what people think of me."

Excellent demonstrations of profanity, indeed. "Eat your pie."

Negan makes a scowly, pouty face like he is completely done with Rick's sass, and he takes a bite as though the pie has personally offended him.

"The Impala," Rick says, tipping his head to the window looking out at the parking lot. "That yours?"

"It most certainly is," Negan says, prideful. His tongue flicks out to catch a glob of cherry goop on the side of his mouth. "You like it?"

"I've seen better."

Negan doesn't react with anger or wounded pride like Rick was expecting. "At least I don't have to arrest chicks to get 'em in my car."

Rick laughs even though he shouldn't, and the sound feels strange in his own ears. He hasn't had much to laugh about since Lori died. There's an excited hiccup in his chest, like the spark of adrenaline he gets when he has to pull his gun. His body might actually deem laughter worthy of a fight-or-flight response.

Negan finishes off the pie and slaps a few dollar bills on the counter. "Give me your phone," he says, holding out his hand.

Rick opens his mouth in silent protest.

Negan sighs like Rick is being difficult. He wiggles his fingers. "Don't make me ask again."

Maybe Rick should just see where this goes. He takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over.

Negan watches Rick's face before diverting his attention to the phone, his thumb working the screen. "Oh, unclench already. I'm not gonna send your dick pics to your grandma or your pastor." Negan's typing something with one thumb, then two, then he hands the phone back. "There."

"What did you do?"

"You'll figure it out," Negan says, giving Rick a sleazy grin before slipping out of the diner like a panther.

It's not like Rick has anything dubious on his phone Negan could have sent, but that doesn't eliminate the possibility of Negan sending some awful text to everyone on his contact list. He hears the Impala pull out of the lot and briefly watches Negan drive off.

Rick unlocks his phone and checks the most recently used app. In his messages is a conversation with Lucifer.

 _I see what you did there._

There's a message in a blue text bubble sent by Rick himself, or at least Negan in possession of Rick's phone: _Told you we could skip over all that shit._

So now Negan has Rick's number, and Negan's listed under an alias, so in case any prying eyes catch a glimpse of Rick's screen they won't bombard him with curious questions. Smart. Sneaky. Mildly terrifying.

Yeah, that pretty much sums Negan up.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: **Negan** : _Rick_

* * *

(Sunday 2:25 PM)

 **Honestly, fuck the Braves**

(Sunday 2:30 PM)

 _hello to you too_

(Sunday 2:30 PM)

 **Skipping, remember?**

(Sunday 2:31 PM)

 **Can you believe this shit**

(Sunday 2:34 PM)

 _I guess there's a game?_

(Sunday 2:35 PM)

 **More like a massacre. Why do we have such a shitty team**

(Sunday 2:40 PM)

 _Maybe you oughta coach em then_

(Sunday 2:41 PM)

 **Ha!**

(Sunday 3:01 PM)

 **What are you doing right this second**

(Sunday 3:07 PM)

 _Grocery shopping_

(Sunday 3:08 PM)

 **Pathetic. When you're done we should go for a drink**

(Sunday 3:13 PM)

 _I don't have a babysitter for Judith_

(Sunday 3:15 PM)

 **Fucking make Carl do it. That's what teenagers are for**

(Sunday 3:17 PM)

 _Maybe some other time_

(Sunday 3:18 PM)

 **Goddamn you're boring**

(Sunday 3:24 PM)

 _Is that why you wanna get a drink with me?_

(Read 3:24 PM)

(Monday 6:59 AM)

 **Rise and shine pRick**

(Monday 7:01 AM)

 _I have an alarm yknow_

(Monday 7:02 AM)

 **Bet it doesn't have my winning personality**

(Monday 11:06 AM)

 **I thought you should know I'm having the best goddamn burger in the entire fucking world right now**

(Monday 11:09 AM)

 _Was sending a picture really necessary?_

(Monday 11:11 AM)

 **Soak it in, Grimes**

(Monday 12:24 PM)

 **What the fuck is that? Is that supposed to be food?**

(Monday 12:26 PM)

 _It's chicken and rice, you dick_

(Monday 12:28 PM)

 **It looks like a goddamn trainwreck**

(Monday 12:31 PM)

 _So I'm not the best cook. Carl didn't mind_

(Monday 12:33 PM)

 **You fed that to your kids? I'm calling CPS this is unacceptable**

(Monday 3:45 PM)

 **Bars should really give you a discount for bringing your own shot glass**

(Monday 3:48 PM)

 _Should you be drinking now?_

(Monday 3:50 PM)

 **The real question, cowboy, is why shouldn't I be drinking now?**

(Monday 3:52 PM)

 _You do realize I'm not an actual cowboy, right?_

(Monday 3:53 PM)

 **I blame the hat**

(Monday 6:14 PM)

 **Just a friendly reminder not to feed your kids garbage for dinner again tonight.**

(Monday 6:20 PM)

 _That doesn't sound very friendly_

(Monday 6:21 PM)

 **:-)**

(Monday 6:22 PM)

 _That's... better?_

(Monday 9:41 PM)

 **All these uptight cocksuckers at the laundromat acting like you're not supposed to bring your own liquor**

(Monday 9:50 PM)

 _You don't realize how hard I'm trying not to call you an alcoholic_

(Monday 9:52 PM)

 **Sober Me appreciates your restraint**

(Monday 9:54 PM)

 _You brought alcohol to a laundromat. You're not sober_

(Read 9:55 PM)

(Tuesday 2:09 AM)

 _You awake?_

(Tuesday 2:12 AM)

 **What the fuck why aren't you asleep**

(Tuesday 2:14 AM)

 _Bad night_

(Tuesday 2:15 AM)

 **You need to learn how to cook or else this is just gonna keep happening**

(Tuesday 2:18 AM)

 _I was called to the scene of Lori's accident and some nights it all comes back_

(Tuesday 2:20 AM)

 **Holy shit. I'm sorry.**

(Tuesday 2:20 AM)

 **That's fucked the fuck up**

(Tuesday 2:21 AM)

 _It feels better to talk to someone. Carl's out of the question. I don't want him to worry._

(Tuesday 2:23 AM)

 **What do you usually do instead of talk**

(Tuesday 2:24 AM)

 _Drink_

(Tuesday 2:25 AM)

 **And you were busting my balls? Asshole**

(Tuesday 2:26 AM)

 _You were doing laundry why would you need to be drunk_

(Tuesday 2:27 AM)

 **Why the fuck not**

(Tuesday 2:29 AM)

 _I worry about your liver_

(Tuesday 2:30 AM)

 **It's the hardest working goddamn liver in the world**

(Tuesday 8:03 AM)

 _Are you hungover?_

(Tuesday 8:05 AM)

 **Keep your fucking voice down, Grimes**

* * *

There are rough, wide hands around Rick's hips, a bristly mouth dragging over the back of his neck, and Rick's being pushed down, and something's sliding inside of him, hot and thick and alive, and it shouldn't feel good, but it does, and Rick hears himself groan an appreciative, hungry noise he ought to be ashamed of, and he's being fucked nice and hard, like he's always wanted. He doesn't know who's behind him, if the identity of the person currently pounding into Rick's ass is important, but then he feels a rough, rumbling purr against the shell of his ear and hears, "Shit, cowboy, you're a bit of a slut," and, oh Jesus, he recognizes that voice, and Rick's bolting awake like there's a gun barrel jammed against his temple.

His heart is pounding, his entire body covered in a sheen of sweat, every limb shaking like he's actually been fucked.

What the actual hell is wrong with his brain? There's no reason for him to have these filthy fucking thoughts in his head about _Negan_ of all people. That's his son's baseball coach, for Christ's sake. And also a dude, which Rick can't recall ever being attracted to before. At least, not like this. Sure, he's noticed a good-looking guy or two—or ten—but what the hell was he gonna do about it? Just a passing interest, a raised eyebrow at a nice pair of cheekbones or strong forearms. And that had been it.

Rick takes slow, deep breaths, trying to calm the shaking. His cock, he notices, is rock-hard, bulging painfully in his boxers. This isn't the kind of thing you just ignore. But, God, why Negan? Rick could fantasize about any man in the world—someone famous and charming and handsome—but no, his stupid brain picks the obnoxious asshole with an ego the size of a goddamn planet.

Rick briefly wonders if Negan's dick is as big as his talk, before his rational side graciously shuts down that train of thought before it leaves the station. But not before his own cock twitches in anticipation. Rick holds his breath, hears the still-manic pulse of his heart in his ears, blood rushing in an overwhelming crash of vacant sound.

 _Don't you fucking do it. Don't you dare._

Rick brushes his palm over his erection, and, oh God, it's so fucking good, just that barely-there slide of his hand, and he grits a sound through his teeth that's messy and raw.

 _Fuck it._

He's not thinking of Negan as he shoves his hand down his boxers and grips his cock. He's not thinking about Negan when he strokes and squeezes and swallows back a moan, not when his hips rock and sway into his fist and short, breathy grunts slip past his lips, and definitely not as his orgasm hits him like a sucker-punch, stealing the breath from his lungs as he shoots hot and messy over his fist.

He's not thinking about Negan.

He's not.

He's not.

* * *

"Should Carl be texting you in class?"

Rick sort of jumps, pocketing his phone after his deputy Shane's voice comes right the hell out of nowhere.

They're having lunch in Rick's car, parked in the Taco Bell lot, and Rick had been texting back and forth with Negan, his fingers leaving invisible smudges on the screen.

"It's not Carl," Rick says, trying to sound like it's no big deal.

Shane looks at him in disbelief. "Who else texts you? And makes you laugh?"

"You."

"Do you see a phone in my hands?"

Shane's holding an enormous burrito, so, no.

"Who is it? Did you finally take my advice and get Tinder?"

"It's just a friend," Rick says, and already he can hear that he's the worst liar in the world right now. "Nothing serious."

"Bullshit," Shane laughs. "You've been texting non-stop the last couple days."

"Just talking." Rick wants to add he's got zero romantic feelings for this person, but that would only spur Shane to ask why the hell Rick's talking to a woman he doesn't want to bang. God, please let Shane continue to think it's a woman. Rick doesn't want to imagine the shitstorm in store for him if Shane finds out he's texting another guy in a way that might be considered flirty.

But it's totally not flirty. Negan seems kind of pathetic and lonely, considering his flagrant alcohol consumption and texts at odd hours, so Rick's only just providing him with someone to talk to.

"Man, you need to get laid," Shane says, shaking his head as though he's disappointed in Rick's life choices.

"I'm taking it slow. You don't see me with a revolving door of girlfriends."

Shane scowls like that's a personal attack, which, yeah, it kind of is. "And you don't see me _just talking_ to some chick."

"Which is probably why you haven't had a stable relationship in years."

"Stable relationships are for horses," Shane scoffs, and Rick groans, but he thinks if Negan had said it he would've laughed.

Speak of the devil...

Rick's phone buzzes in his pocket.

(Wednesday 11:15 AM)

 **Busy tonight?**

Rick stares at the words. They don't change. He's tempted to say yes and brush Negan off, but when was the last time he went out and enjoyed himself? Shane usually invites him out, but Rick knows what that will entail: strip clubs or bars with loud, drunk women trying to get a piece of him. He doesn't think Negan will try to hook him up with anyone, at least.

(Wednesday 11:17 AM)

 _What do you have in mind?_

Shane watches Rick text and shakes his head again with a scoff that says _can you believe this asshole?_

(Wednesday 11:18 AM)

 **Dinner? You should probably see what real food is supposed to look like**

(Wednesday 11:19 AM)

 _Ok but I'm not putting out_

(Wednesday 11:19 AM)

 **Tease**

Nope, totally not flirty at all.

(Wednesday 11:21 AM)

 _I reserve the right to judge your cooking_

(Wednesday 11:23 AM)

 **Nope, cause I don't cook. We're going out.**

Rick's pulse races.

(Wednesday 11:24 AM)

 _In public?_

(Wednesday 11:25 AM)

 **Embarrassed to be seen with me? That would hurt my feelings if I gave a shit what you think.**

(Wednesday 11:25 AM)

 **Which I don't.**

(Wednesday 11:27 AM)

 _I'm not embarrassed. I just don't want the whole town in my business._

"Give me that," Shane says, snatching Rick's phone out of his hand.

"Hey!"

Shane ignores him, reading over the conversation. "Lucifer, huh? Angel in the streets, devil in the sheets?"

Rick's face feels like it's on fire. "I told you it's not like that."

"Y'all are flirtin' an awful lot for it to just be nothing."

Oh God, _are_ they flirting? Is that what's going on here and Rick's just too oblivious to realize it? Is Negan flirting with him? Is he flirting with Negan?

Rick doesn't know anything anymore.

The phone buzzes in Shane's hand, and Shane reads the new message onscreen. "'Okay, we'll do it your way.'" He look at Rick. "And which way is that? Doggy-style?"

Rick grabs his phone back like it holds the cure for all the world's ailments. "Do I need to remind you I carry a gun?"

Shane holds his hands up in surrender. "Look, ain't nobody prouder than me if you're gettin' some. Lord knows it's about time. And if you don't want anybody knowin' about it, fine. I won't say a word."

Rick almost wants to let Shane go on believing that's what's happening, but if he does it won't end there. Shane will eventually ask for follow-ups and pictures and want to meet this Lucifer, and the whole thing will spiral into one of those ridiculous sitcom clichés that you roll your eyes at until it happens to you.

What the hell has Rick gotten himself into?


	5. Chapter 5

"I thought I was on house arrest," Carl says as Rick's driving him and Judith to the Rhees', because the kid hasn't met any luck he hasn't pushed just for the hell of it.

"You still are, but somethin' came up."

Carol turned out to be busy tonight (with Morgan, perhaps?), so Rick had to scramble to find a sitter. Glenn and Maggie were happy to take them in for the evening.

"What is it?"

"It's nothin'," Rick says, like it's a mantra by this point. "But I don't know how long I'll be gone."

Carl offers no further argument, which is fantastic, because Rick doesn't really have a solid alibi here. He sure as hell can't ask Shane to cover for him.

They pull up to Glenn and Maggie's modest two-story colonial. Maggie opens the front door and smiles widely at Judith, kneeling as far down for a hug as her pregnant belly will allow. "Hey girlfriend!"

"Maggie!" Judith chirps.

Maggie makes a surprised face. "You know my name?"

Judith giggles. "'Course I do, silly!"

Glenn appears behind Maggie and greets Carl with a wave. "There's pizza and Call of Duty," is all Glenn needs to say to get Carl moving. After Carl's inside, Glenn chuckles and looks at Rick. "Hey, Rick."

It's been a while since Rick has seen them. Maggie's hair has been cut short, and Glenn's has grown out. They look a little tired but mostly thrilled to be expecting a child. What a sweet couple of kids, Rick thinks, before realizing they're hardly kids anymore but college graduates starting their own family. Christ, he feels old.

"Sorry to ask you on such short notice," Rick apologizes.

"Don't worry about it," Maggie says, hoisting Judith into her arms. She doesn't look like she could comfortably handle the weight of a toddler, but Maggie is full of surprises. "It's no trouble at all. Plus, it's good practice." She eyes Rick curiously. "You got a date?"

Rick isn't wearing anything particularly special or fancy, but maybe Maggie senses something different about him in spirit. She's intuitive that way. "Uh, not really."

"Okay," Maggie says with a knowing smile, rolling her eyes a bit. "Have fun, Rick."

Negan has texted Rick his address, so Rick figures they're in for a casual night of Netflix and takeout.

Negan's apartment building is actually really nice-looking, which throws Rick right the hell off. He was expecting something run-down and terrifying, a place where you'd see at least five guys selling dope behind the dumpsters. But the building is a cream-colored three-story with decorative vinyl balcony fencing, surrounded by trees sporting warm-hued leaves. There's not an old lady on the porch sipping a mint julep in a rocking chair, but there ought to be.

Not at all where you'd expect the devil to live.

Rick finds Negan's apartment on the second floor and knocks. Then the door's swinging open, and Negan's standing there in his uniform of jeans and that leather jacket with a t-shirt underneath. He reminds Rick of a cartoon character, always wearing the same outfit.

"Hey."

"Hey." Rick's pretty quick with the smooth lines.

Negan steps out and shuts the door behind him, sticking his key into the lock.

"Wait, we're not going inside?"

"I'm many things, but a chef ain't one of 'em. We're goin' out," Negan says as he heads down the steps. "And we're takin' my car, because you haven't had the grand fucking pleasure of riding in her yet."

 _Her_? Oh jeez.

"Where are we going?" 

"Somewhere we can be invisible."

Rick finds it hard to imagine Negan blending in anywhere but a biker bar or a bondage fanatics convention. He really hopes they're not going to any of those locales tonight; he'd stick out like, well, a suburban dad at a biker bar. "You, invisible?"

Negan scratches his scruffy chin, thinking that one over. "Okay, _you_ can be invisible."

Negan's Impala must be at least thirty years old, but the interior looks brand new, all shiny, well-oiled leather and vinyl. Rick's almost afraid to sit in it and tarnish the upholstery. The leather makes a creaking "grr" sound as he carefully lowers himself into the seat. The seats are lower to the ground than Rick's used to, making him feel like he's riding in a go-kart.

"Whadd'ya think?" Negan gloats. "Ain't she the most magnificent cocksucking thing you've ever seen?"

Rick lilts an eyebrow. "Oh, she can do all that? No wonder you don't date."

"Someone once tell you you were funny, Rick?" Negan sneers, though he looks like he's struggling not to laugh. He turns the ignition, and the engine rumbles like a purr in Rick's bones.

They cruise through the streetlamp-lit night. Negan has an elbow hanging out the window while he drives. "You're a real son of a bitch, Grimes," he says, in apropos of nothing.

"Me?"

"I don't know how you did it, but you actually got me to feel bad about something. And I can be a real cold-hearted motherfucker when I want to be."

Rick has no idea how to respond to this.

"But that night in the jail, you told me your favorite memory about Lori and I didn't return the favor. Looking back, that was kind of a dick move."

Rick shrugs. He'd forgotten about it, really. Talking about Lori hurts, but not as much as it would have without psychiatric intervention. Rick's guessing Negan's idea of counseling is baby-talking to the bottle of Jack. "You weren't ready."

"So I'll tell you mine," Negan says. "We were lying on the bed, watching the rain. Lucille was reading me her long list of baby names, and I would veto the ones I didn't like, which was most of 'em, 'cause I'm an asshole. She was right next to me, and she smelled like clean cotton and this coconut lotion she used to use. And when she got to one name on the list she got all shy, and of course I had to know why. I said, 'Honey, there is no way in hell you're bringing another Negan into this world. I am the one and only.' And she laughed and said if we had a boy she wanted to name him Dean, because I reminded her of James Dean and 'he's gonna be just like his daddy when he grows up.'"

The sadness hits Rick right in the sternum, knocking the breath out of him. He tries to imagine his life if it had all been cut short before Carl was ever born. If he and Lori had made plans to start a family only to have it all stolen away. He thinks about Glen and Maggie and their unborn child and feels something squeeze his heart.

"I'm sorry," Rick says, because anything else would be patronizing and insufferable.

"Now don't you go feeling sorry for me. We're even."

"I'm not keepin' score."

Negan stares straight at the road ahead, his mouth screwed up like he's trying to figure out Rick's motives. They ride in silence for a moment or two until Negan can't stand it and switches on some music.

Rick's not surprised at all to hear AC/DC from the stereo, but it's _not_ 'Highway to Hell,' which would've been a little too on the nose for his taste. "Of course," he mutters to himself with a chuckle.

"Lemme guess, you were expecting 'The Devil Went Down to Georgia'?"

Negan is really fucking corny now that Rick thinks about it, but he actually likes that about him. Negan knows his jokes and entire demeanor are cheesy, and he _owns_ that shit. He revels in it. He thinks he's hilarious, and damned if you don't walk away thinking he is too.

They get onto the main road that will lead them into Atlanta. Rick watches the night, gazes at the starry lights and drifts. There's something inexplicably surreal about night driving, something that makes you feel like you're the last surviving person on earth, even if there are other cars on the road. A tangible weightlessness, as though anything done under the cover of darkness will result in no consequences. He can almost feel the electric pulse of the city beating in his veins.

"You gotta have some crazy cop stories, right?" Negan asks after a moment.

"Well, there was the drunk idiot baseball coach who threw up in a garbage can," Rick says with a pointed smirk.

"Hearsay," Negan growls. "You weren't even fucking there."

Rick chuckles and turns his gaze back to the window. "I brought in a meth dealer once. Merle Dixon. Currently in the state pen. He was dealing, using, probably manufacturing out of that run-down trailer. When me and Shane made the arrest we found huge bags of the purest crystal I'd ever seen. It was blue, like tinted glass. I know Merle wasn't smart enough to make that. Shane said he probably bought it from a cartel in the southwest."

"Not a lot to do in a town like this except make drugs."

"Or moonshine."

Negan laughs. "What?"

"Merle's brother, Daryl—I swear to God he's makin' moonshine out on some old, abandoned land west of town. "

"Jesus, that shit'll melt the shell off a snail. Does he know you can just _buy_ alcohol?"

"If you want somethin' done right, do it yourself," Rick says with a shrug.

"Wrong. Incorrect. Masturbation and homemade alcohol are poor substitutes for the real thing."

"And you know this from experience?" Rick teases.

"Fuck you, Grimes," Negan says, but he's smiling.

Negan takes him to a trendy bar in the city filled with vintage arcade machines. He seems to be a regular here, because the huge guy behind the bar greets him with a half-smile and a head nod. "Negan, what's up?"

"Tyreese! My man!" Negan slides onto a barstool with ease and jerks his thumb at Rick. "Show my buddy Rick here a good time."

"You got it." Tyreese is big and broad and could probably play linebacker for the Falcons. He looks at Rick. "What's your poison?"

"Oh, uh, just a beer. Coors Lite." Rick doesn't want to end up drunk and weepy tonight.

"For fuck's sake, light beer? Why don't you just order one of those fruity drinks with the little umbrella?" Negan shakes his head, exasperated.

Tyreese turns to Negan. "The usual?"

Rick pictures Negan's usual as a collection of shots served on one of those wheeled carts that hotels use to deliver room service.

"Not tonight," Negan says. "I didn't come here to drink. Just give me a scotch."

"You got it." Tyreese turns away to fetch their orders.

"If you didn't come here to drink, then what?"

"The food, and to make sure nobody fucked with my high score on Galaga."

Tyreese slides Rick a frosty, frothy glass of beer. "Oh, bad news chief," he says to Negan. "Somebody broke your record the other day."

"Motherfucker!" Negan sort of yells.

"Galaga?" Rick cocks an eyebrow. "I thought you were more of a ping pong guy."

"They don't have a table here. But I have one back at my place."

Rick ignores the sort-of invitation. "Who do you play with?"

Negan grins. "Myself." And, yep, he knows exactly how that sounds, and he is running with it.

Tyreese sets Negan's drink in front of him and says, "You nasty."

"Rick knows what he signed up for."

Rick actually does not. At all. Negan is the most ridiculous person he's ever met.

"What else can I get you?" Tyreese asks.

Rick glances up at the menu written on the chalkboard on the wall, but Negan's got this covered. "Rick's gonna have the smokehouse burger—"

"I am?"

"And I'll do the bourbon bacon. And, because I'm not a rabbit, no lettuce. I swear to God, if I find lettuce—"

"Have I ever done you wrong?" Tyreese says.

"No, my good man, you have not."

When Tyreese is gone, Negan downs his drink in one long swallow and stands up. "Time to reclaim my throne," he says, heading for the Galaga machine. "Watch and learn, Grimes." Rick follows him, because he's interested in seeing where this goes.

The bar has a decent crowd for a Wednesday night. A group of college-age guys are huddled around the Mortal Kombat II machine, whooping and hollering as one of their buddies plays. The older games are less popular, so Negan doesn't have to push anyone out of the way.

"Who the fuck is PJR?" Negan asks, pounding his fist on the machine as the high scores scroll by.

"You got beat by somebody named 'ass', too," Rick points out.

"'ASS' is me! I'm the ass!"

Rick bites the inside of his lip. "You said it, not me."

Negan grumbles and slams the start button like it's insulted his mother. Rick leans against the side of the machine and watches Negan attempt to reclaim his high score: 'attempt' because Negan's not doing so hot. Every time he dies he swears, and Rick's glad there's no kids allowed in here or else Negan would be on the receiving end of some stern complaints from parents. How does Negan keep his job with that foul mouth, Rick wonders. Then he wonders what else that mouth is capable of, and a shiver rolls up his spine and makes him twitch.

"God _damn_ it!" Negan shouts after his third consecutive loss. His highest score was 8,125.

"I could try," Rick volunteers.

Negan makes a face like this is a horrible idea, then he smirks. "Alright, sure, I could use a laugh." He steps aside, and they switch positions. Rick gets the hang of the game pretty quickly, and soon he's racked up 2,500 points on his first life.

"You know you're s'posed to dodge the bullets, right?"

"Shut up," Negan grumbles.

Rick has a bit of practice from the occasions he's played video games with Carl—though Carl's games have way better graphics—but Negan has his ping pong obsession, so they're probably evenly matched in regards to eye-hand coordination. But Rick thinks he's doing okay, maybe better than okay if the growly noises Negan's making are any indication. He hasn't lost a ship yet, and he's almost got five-thousand points.

"What was your high score, Mr. Ass?" Rick teases.

"Twelve-thousand." Negan sounds nervous as Rick's score inches closer to his record. "Fucker beat me by a hair."

"Gettin' there." Rick lets a ship get captured so he can snag it back and shoot twice as many bullets. The points counter adds up at an astonishing rate.

7,000.

8,000.

At 10,750 points Rick loses a ship. "Damn." Two more left. He weaves through the spray of enemy fire (mostly by sheer luck) and sends out shots of his own. The score jumps up incrementally, and Negan watches with simmering curiosity.

Another of Rick's ships goes down around 11,000 points. He really, really wants to beat Negan's score just for bragging rights. But he's down to his final ship, and the bullets are coming faster and the screen's filling up with enemy aliens and his heart's pounding in his chest.

"No fucking way," Negan says in disbelief. "I swear to God..."

Almost there. Almost there. Keep going.

11,250.

11,500.

Rick dodges a cluster of bullets just in time.

11,750.

12,000.

"Well, I'll be goddamned!"

12,100.

12,250.

Rick's heart hammers against his ribs. Just a little more. The tendons in his wrist have started to cramp from jamming the fire button. But there are too many fast-moving enemies on screen, and Rick doesn't stand a chance. He dies unceremoniously after crashing into one of the flying enemy ships. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Wow."

"Fuckin' A."

Rick's score is actually higher than the current champion PJR by a measly 100 points.

Rick steps aside at the high score screen so Negan can claim his rightful place. "Go on, Mr. Ass."

Negan gives him a curious stare, like he doesn't understand why Rick would do this for him unless it's some sort of trap to make him look stupid. But he can't seem to resist the opportunity to take the top spot on the leaderboards, so he starts fiddling with the joystick to toggle the letters.

"Suck my dick, PJR. The king is back!"

 _JSS._

"Um... You spelled it wrong."

"Nope." Negan slaps the button and submits the score. "It was something you said to me in lock-up, remember?"

Rick barely remembers what he had for breakfast most days.

"I asked you how you made it this far, and you said 'you just survive somehow.'"

He's a study in surprises, this guy, and Rick feels himself smile.

They head back to the bar for their food. Negan orders a Coke, then, when Tyreese isn't looking, produces a small silver flask from his leather jacket and spikes the soda.

"Um..." Rick finds he's saying that a lot lately around Negan.

"Oh, don't be a little bitch," Negan says, pocketing the flask and swallowing a long gulp. "You're off-duty, right? We can get a little wild."

Rick chuckles, takes a bite of his smokehouse burger, and it's every bit as delicious as it sounds. "The wildest thing Lori ever did was have sex with the lights on."

"Good God, you're vanilla. What would you do without me adding some excitement to your boring life?"

He's right, of course. Rick's life after Lori had been a dreary cluster of grey, like someone turned the colors all the way down on a TV set. But then Negan happened, and suddenly there were colors again. Points of interest. Things to look forward to, even just something small like a text message. They're two of the saddest motherfuckers in the world, but Rick doesn't feel sad around Negan. He hopes that's mutual—if it isn't, why would Negan want to hang around him?

"If I'm so boring, how come you're always wantin' to go for drinks?" Rick says with a lilt of a smile.

"I didn't say you were boring. I said your life was boring."

Rick knows that's bullshit. He digs out his phone and scrolls through their texts until he finds the one he's looking for. He shows Negan the screen:

(Sunday 3:18 PM)

 **Goddamn you're boring**

Negan makes a face like he's suddenly forgotten how to read. "I have no memory of this."

"Didn't think you would." Rick smirks and puts his phone away. He gets an almost erotic thrill out of catching people in a lie; it's one of the perks of being the sheriff.

Speaking of erotic thrills... Negan takes another drink, sucking and crunching one of the ice cubes in a way that Rick finds a little arousing. Okay, a lot.

They eat and drink and laugh, and people come and go, and somewhere behind them a group of guys rally around a Street Fighter machine and cheer on a friend, but the noise of the outside world seems to fade away until it's just Rick and Negan, and Rick can feel something electric happening between them as loosely spinning pieces of himself click back into place.

They leave the bar around eleven. Rick has no idea where the time went. He should probably get back to the Rhees' and pick up the kids at a decent hour, but he doesn't want to rush through the aftermath of this "date."

Negan seems to be in possession of his faculties, so Rick lets him drive, though he doesn't think Negan would be stupid enough to get shitfaced when he's got someone else—the sheriff, nonetheless—in the car. The night rolls by outside the windows, and Rick watches.

After a moment, Negan says, "What kind of fucked up shit do you think about when you get all quiet like that?"

"Lori. Carl. Judith," Rick says with a shrug.

"That sounds disappointingly normal."

"You want fucked up? After Lori died, I kept hearing her voice. Seein' her. So I started... talking to her."

"That's not so bad. I named the car Lucille. She's sleek, sexy, and looks good in black."

Rick's mouth twitches into a tiny smile. "I didn't name anything after Lori. Some days I wish I had."

"And others?"

"Others I don't even wanna go there."

"Well, the good news is you're not fucked up. Bad news? You're still a little fucked up."

"Maybe you are too."

"Oh, I'm the fuckin' big man of fucked up, Rick. You don't even know," Negan says with a devilish grin.

There are only a few dim lights on when they arrive at Negan's apartment building. Negan parks in the lot, and they idle for a minute in comfortable silence. Rick discovers he doesn't want to leave.

Negan, as though reading Rick's mind, shifts to face him. His jacket creaks against the leather of the seat as he moves. "Rick, when was the last time you got laid?"

Rick hears himself gasp, and, holy hell, could he be more pathetic if he tried?

"Aw, Jesus, don't tell me... You've got a goddamn superpower, my man, and you haven't even used it?"

"What are you talking about?"

Negan leans in as though about to reveal an earth-shattering secret. He smells like leather and motor oil and cologne. Dear God, he put on cologne for this. "It sounds pretty sick, but let me tell you: the widower situation gets the ladies' panties extremely wet. We're talking Niagara Falls here. _Sploosh_."

Rick frowns at the imagery and whatever gesture Negan makes with his hand. He's trying very hard not to picture that, because it'll make him blush and squirm against a growing erection and he does _not_ need that right now.

Negan's eyebrows jump up. "Oh-ho, I get it." A grin spreads across his face. "You're playin' for a whole 'nother team, aren't you?"

Rick rolls his eyes, but a sick, morbid part of his brain wants to know where this goes.

"So you're telling me you haven't stuck your dick into anything but your own fist for the last two years?" Negan says in utter disbelief. "Y'know, you're not s'posed to do it that much or you'll go blind." He sticks up three fingers in front of Rick's face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Rick bats his hand away with an irritated noise. "Why do you care so much about my sex life?"

"Because I think we could help each other out."

"Doesn't sound like you need much help."

Negan laughs. "Well, thank you, Rick, that's very flattering, but I'm more interested in you than some corn-fed blonde with daddy issues."

"Why me?"

"I love a man in uniform." Negan does a filthy thing with his tongue that ties Rick up in knots and sends a confusing shiver of arousal up his spine like an electric pulse.

Dumbly, Rick glances down at his own clothes. No uniform.

Negan reaches out and hooks a finger in the front of Rick's shirt, at the joint of the second button. His knuckle brushes over Rick's chest in the faintest touch, and Rick feels a curl of need in his gut. "Wha'ddya say, Rick?" His name is a crackle in Negan's mouth. "Wanna get your man-cherry popped?"

Rick finds that he really, really does. But he doesn't want Negan to think he's easy. Negan watches him, almost appraising. Rick struggles to keep his face neutral, but Negan's open inspection makes him nervous.

"What's your angle?" Rick wonders. He fights the urge to glance down at Negan's finger still caught in the front of his shirt. "What do you want?"

Negan huffs a laugh, drawing back a bit. "I'm sorry, I thought I was being pretty fuckin' straightforward here, but maybe you're not gettin' it." He speaks slower now, focusing on each word. "I want to have sex with you."

Rick feels just a bit condescended to. And he still can't fucking believe this is happening to him. "I... get that. But what do you _want_ out of it? A relationship? 'Cause I don't think I'm ready—"

"Hold the goddamn cocksucking phone! Who said anything about a relationship? I don't wanna be your boyfriend or hold your hand at the drive-in or share a malt at the soda shop"—what decade does Negan think it is?—"I just want a little fun. Or a lot, depending on what you're packin' down there."

Rick hopes he's not as red as he feels. He's pretty sure his face is burning, and the next overt sexual advance will melt his skin off like that scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

"You don't need to be _in love_ to get laid," Negan says with sarcastic flourish. "Sex is just a physical act. Like shaking hands."

Rick huffs a tiny laugh. "When you put it like that, I have to wonder about your prowess."

There's this thing Negan does when Rick says something sassy, a tilt of his head and a wry smirk at the corner of his open mouth, like he's stunned and amused that Rick went there. "I will rock your fucking world, Rick. All you have to do is say the word."

Rick thinks about the dream, remembers how rock-solid his dick had been and how good it felt to just give himself over like that. He wants to feel good again, and if he can get that without committing to something he isn't ready for, why not go for it? He's always been a little more traditional than most, tangling sex and love into a weird, salt-encrusted sailor's knot, but here's a chance for him to try something new and exciting.

Negan has been pushing at the walls of Rick's restraint for too long, and Rick's ready to let him in.

"Alright," Rick says, and he's moving closer and pushing his hand up the warm line of Negan's denim-clad thigh, and his brain is screaming _oh my God you're crazy what's wrong with you_ , but he's not listening, then Negan makes a deep noise in his chest, and he's got Rick pinned across the front seat, leather creaking as their weight shifts. Rick is sort of jammed up against the passenger door, and Negan has a knee between Rick's legs, and Rick shoves into Negan's thigh before he can talk himself out of it.

Negan's already working on Rick's belt, tugging his jeans down his legs with a practiced sort of finesse, and Rick really shouldn't be turned on by that, but there it is, and Negan notices the swell of arousal inside Rick's shorts and gives him a little squeeze. Rick hears himself make a noise, his hips rocking wildly into Negan's hand before it's gone and he's humping at the air. Negan pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a small bottle, like he's done this before, or even planned for this all along, so, okay, this is going to be a pretty quick, utilitarian orgasm then, which Rick is absolutely fine with, because after two years of going solo his cock's like an exposed nerve ending.

Rick is desperate now, so when Negan's slippery, thick fingers press against his hole there's no resistance. Rick makes a loud, ragged groan he should be embarrassed about, but he barely hears himself through the rush of blood in his ears. He wriggles closer, knees up along Negan's sides, his hips pushing forward in a struggle for more. Negan's warmth and weight trap Rick down, his fingers stroking and sliding and opening him up.

"Shit, you're wide open for me," Negan huffs, and, great, he's a talker. "Been a while?" Rick whines, needy and raspy. He's getting closer, forgetting how to breathe as the tension builds and twists him up tight. "No one's ever touched you like this, huh?" Negan says, sounding smug and pleased with himself.

Rick's shaking, hands scrabbling for Negan's hair, his jacket, something to hold on to. He lifts his hips off the leather seat, reaches down to give himself the one or two strokes he'll need to blow his load, but Negan stops him with an iron hand, the other still working him down below.

Negan leans in, his mouth at Rick's ear. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." His voice rumbles through Rick like a passing Harley. Negan hooks his fingers inside of him, and everything is tight and hot, and _fuckfuckohfuck_ , then Rick is seeing stars, the universe bursting apart in a hot, wet gush. Rick loses himself, suspended in that blissful moment of weightlessness, like he's being sucked underwater, and when he pieces himself back together he feels the void where Negan's fingers had been. He's sticky with sweat and jizz and lube, and, goddamn, he likes it.

Rick's still trying to catch his breath when Negan says, "Hot damn! That was a wild ride! My dick's so hard right now it could crack steel."

Rick imagines that, thinks about Negan inside of him, and his loins tighten and strain like he'll come all over again. He can see the bulge in Negan's jeans. It takes a strange amount of self-control for Rick to keep his hands to himself. "Do you want..." He manages to croak out, his throat wrecked.

"Nah, Rick, I think I'll give you this one for free."

Rick lets out a long, shaky sigh, finds he's both relieved and disappointed that he isn't being asked to reciprocate.

"So how was it?"

All Rick can say is, " _Sploosh_."


	6. Chapter 6

Rick goes to the Rhees' house and picks up Carl and Judith. He's still slick and shaking from his orgasm, lube trickling down the inside of his thighs. Maggie answers the door with a tired smile, holding Judith by the hand. Glenn is asleep on the couch in a ridiculous position.

Rick snickers. "They wear you out?"

"Glenn's gonna have his hands full when the baby comes," Maggie says with a laugh.

"Daddy!" Judith rushes toward Rick and latches onto his leg.

"Hey there." Rick touches a hand to Judith's head, pushes his fingers through her hair. It seems wrong somehow to touch something so pure after he's been freshly fucked like a cheap whore.

Carl emerges and squeezes past Maggie through the door. "Hey. You were gone a long time," he says, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah, sorry."

Maggie gives Rick a knowing smile.

"Thank you. Again," Rick tells her, embarrassed, like she knows exactly why he's still slightly out of breath. "I mean it."

"It's no problem, Rick. You have a good night." Maggie starts to close the door, whispers, "Bye, Judith!" and waves at her before it closes.

Rick drives them home in guilty silence. Judith is already falling asleep, but Carl sits in the passenger seat with his arms folded over his chest, like he is very disappointed in his father.

The silence is suffocating, accusatory, and Rick can't stand the way it's boiling him alive. "Everything okay?" he asks.

Carl takes a moment. "Yeah. I'm just tired. And Glenn sucks at Call of Duty." He glances over at Rick. "Where'd you go?"

"Out."

Carl makes a scoffing noise, because both of them know if Carl gave a vague answer like that Rick wouldn't be having any of it. "Cool." The sarcasm is strong in this one.

When they get home, Rick doesn't have any trouble putting Judith to bed, mostly because she's already asleep when they get there. Carl is a bit more difficult. As Rick leaves Judith's room, he sees a light on inside Carl's bedroom, probably the fluorescent glow of the laptop screen. The door is cricked open a sliver, and Rick knocks first, because he and Carl have a pretty good 'don't ask, don't tell' policy when it comes to Carl's internet usage, and he doesn't want to walk in on anything he'll want to later unsee.

"Carl?"

"What?"

Rick edges the door open. Carl's not masturbating or looking at anything unsavory—Rick's own guilty conscience fucking with him—just scrolling through his Facebook feed.

"Ten more minutes," Rick says, tipping his chin towards the computer. He feels like he's relying on outdated authority here, because if Carl knew Rick had fucked himself on Negan's fingers not thirty minutes ago he wouldn't listen to anything out of Rick's mouth ever again. And would possibly find a less dysfunctional family to live with, a family with a perky mom and a boring dad who wears a tie and works in a cubicle and definitely doesn't let his son's baseball coach finger his ass.

Carl rolls his eyes and says, "Okay."

As Rick heads down the hall to his own bedroom, he passes by a photo of himself, Lori, Carl, and Judith on the wall, possibly the last photograph ever taken of the four of them together. Lori's eyes seem to scald him as he walks by.

When Rick settles into bed after a shower, he sees Negan's filthy smirk tattooed across his eyelids, flashing in neon whenever he blinks.

* * *

Rick doesn't see Negan until Tuesday night. He's lying in bed about half past midnight, restlessly turning over in bed and squeezing his thighs together to temper his raging cock. Negan has unlocked some animal, lustful side of Rick he'd thought was hidden away, stuffed in the recesses of his mind like a box of old clothes in the attic. He hasn't felt sexual desire in so long; all his pent-up kinks and needs have been unleashed in a radioactive burst potent enough to take out a whole town.

He's palming himself through his shorts when he realizes how ridiculous this is. He has a fuckbuddy—that's what they're called nowadays, right? He doesn't have to rub one out to fantasies like a basement-dwelling loner; he can have sex with an actual _person_. That's a thing he can do now that he and Negan have their little arrangement.

He reaches for his cell phone lying on the night table.

Rick Grimes is about to make an honest-to-God _booty call._

He opens up a new message, his heart pounding in his ears. He's never explicitly requested sexual favors before; sex has always been something that just sort of happened in the moment. Asking "hey, can we bang?" is a bit of a mood-killer, and scheduling it (which they'd done the first time Lori tried to get pregnant) takes all the arousal out of sex and turns the act into a chore.

Rick stares at the blinking cursor and tries to think of something witty and casual to say. Nothing comes, so he just writes what he's thinking: _You awake?_

He hits send before he can panic and rewrite the same sentence in twenty different ways.

Negan is typing, and Rick's heart gallops in nervous excitement, and okay he's taking too long for a simple yes or no oh God why can't Rick have nice things for once in his miserable life—

(12:34 A.M.)

 **I could cut a fucking diamond with my cock right now get your ass over here**

Well then.

Rick throws on a pair of jeans, stuffs his phone into his pocket, and finds his shoes. He has a brief moment of parental guilt for leaving the house unprotected, but there hasn't been a murder in King County in four months, and that was the result of a drug deal gone bad. Carol sees everything—she'll probably see Rick sneaking out of his own house and have some stern questions for him tomorrow. No one's stupid enough to break into the sheriff's house. Rick won't even be gone that long. He might as well be running up to the grocery store to buy milk.

Rick has to stop himself from rubbing at his swollen cock on the drive to Negan's apartment. If he can just keep it in his fucking pants... It really doesn't help that the seat vibrates against his ass. He grips his hands around the steering wheel as though he isn't going to fucking burst into flames. Christ, it's like someone's rubbing the crotch of his voodoo doll.

Finally, he makes it to Negan's place, and he tries to knock in a way that doesn't let on how goddamn turned on he is, and Negan opens the door, grins at him, wearing only a pair of black boxer-briefs so tight they make Rick momentarily choke on his own saliva, and this shit is _on_.

Negan yanks Rick inside and guides him to the bedroom while pulling Rick's t-shirt over his head, discarding it somewhere on the hallway floor. He steers Rick into the room, and Rick's working on the buttons of Negan's shirt until Negan turns him around and pushes him against the bed in an effortlessly choreographed move. Rick's face and chest are shoved into the mattress, his jeans sliding down his hips, and Negan pushes in, because he knows Rick can take it, knows Rick's already wide open for whatever he wants to do, and Rick groans, because it's so fucking _good_ to be taken apart like this.

"Goddamn, you're tight," Negan growls, a hitch in his voice like he's just as fucked as Rick. "And you're all mine." He's clutching Rick's hips hard enough that he'll have bruises later, his rhythm quick and rough, and Rick's clawing at the sheets and rutting into his thrusts. "I get to fuck your pretty little ass day or night, huh?"

Rick slurs affirmation into the sheets; it's hard to say no to that when Negan's shoving into him just right, cock twitching and pulsing inside of him.

Negan is bent over Rick, hot breath fogging over the back of his neck, and every once in a while his beard will scrape skin, and Rick will shiver, his cock tightening and twitching and leaking.

Negan buries himself deep, grunts a noise that's raw and a little lost, and absolutely fucking _ruins_ Rick Grimes. Rick smothers a moan into the mattress. Negan is hot and messy inside of him, and there's no way he's lasting after that. Rick shudders his way through it, his hips jerking recklessly as he tries to ride out his orgasm. He shakes and squirms, squeezing his thighs together when Negan slides out.

"You're a hell of a lay," Negan says, catching his breath. He's still holding Rick's hips, albeit gentler now, and Rick feels like melting into the bed and calling it a night. "You just can't wait to give it up for me, Rick."

"I've never—It's never been like that before," Rick gasps.

"I told you I'd rock your fuckin' world." There's a snap of elastic, and Rick turns his rubbery body on its side to catch a glimpse of Negan clad in those unholy black shorts (seriously, Rick might have just discovered a deeply-buried fetish). "I don't make promises I can't keep." His body is ri-goddamn-diculous, like he spent a lifetime as an action film star and only recently starting going to pot. There's still a decent amount of tone to him, a burly sort of tightness that Rick is oddly aroused by. And then there's the tattoos and the dark, wiry body hair, which apparently is also a thing that gets Rick going.

When the hell did he get so thirsty for cock?

Negan glides through the open mouth of the bedroom door, and Rick sits up carefully, because his insides feel bruised and shaken up. "Where're you going?" Though he doesn't mind the view; Negan's ass is a thing to be treasured. There should be a monument dedicated to it.

"Might as well kill some time before round two."

"You want—Again?" Rick sputters out. Negan might have fucked Rick's brains out, as well as his fine motor skills, and possibly all the energy he'll have for the rest of the month. He'd really like to curl up in the bed and take a five-year nap. Maybe when he wakes up he'll feel like moving again.

"Don't tell me all that was just a show for my benefit," Negan says, disappearing down the hallway.

Rick climbs off the bed, and his shaky legs give out from underneath him. He clatters to the floor like a clumsy ox.

Negan's head appears in the doorway. "Je-hee-sus, you're a fuckin' wreck," he laughs as Rick picks himself and his dignity up off the floor.

Rick pulls up his jeans and prays for the earth to swallow him.

Negan leans his weight against the doorframe. "You're not gonna stick around for sloppy seconds?" He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. Rick vaguely recalls his shirt ending up in the hallway, so he moves closer to retrieve it, but Negan blocks his path. "That's too bad, 'cause I was gonna open up my bag of tricks. I was gonna suck your cock, Rick. Would you like that? Yeah, I bet you would. Now, I don't do that shit for just anybody. But you, sir, are special."

Rick wants to speak but finds his mouth has gone dry. Over the past two years, "being alive" and "being happy" were two circles in his life's Venn diagram that rarely, if ever, overlapped. But this situation, as fucking bizarre as it is, Rick finds actually makes him happy. He likes having someone who doesn't judge him for all the freaky shit he apparently digs in bed. Someone who doesn't expect intimacy Rick isn't ready for. Someone who doesn't look at him with pity or treat him like a delicate flower. Someone who's been through the same hellscape of grief and loss.

And it doesn't hurt that Negan is wickedly hot and loves pushing at Rick's edges.

Rick opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. He tries to keep his eyes forward, but there's so much of Negan to look at. "I—I have to get back. I left them..." He's a terrible parent. Who allowed him to make decisions?

Negan looks amused and pleased by Rick's resolution—resolution which would be admirable if Rick hadn't left his children alone in the house so he could get his ass pounded by a leather daddy. "No shit?" Negan lets out a low whistle. "You got it bad, Sheriff. Why don't we make things a little easier and I'll come over instead?" If Negan expects Rick to actually answer that, he doesn't let him, giving him a wry grin. "Oh, right, you yowl like a wildcat in the sack! And we wouldn't want Carl hearing any of that. Poor kid probably has enough nightmares."

Rick's certain his face is the shade of a tomato.

"Well, that's what gags are for, right?"

Rick cannot let himself think about that or he's going to have another wildly troublesome boner. He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "I have to go," he says, and Negan lets him pass.

"That's a shame, Rick, but damn if I'm not impressed by your willpower."

Rick picks his shirt off the floor, pulls it over his head. "Don't be."

"You're not like the others," Negan says, following Rick to the door.

Rick glances at him over his shoulder. "There are others?"

Negan grins. "My, my, sir, I do believe you're jealous."

"Keep dreamin'," Rick snorts with a laugh.

"My point"—Negan snags his fingers in Rick's belt loops and tugs him closer, because what is personal space anyway?—"is all those other suburban dads with their mid-life crises and receding hairlines and sagging man-tits, they wouldn't have the balls to do what you're doing. Hell, they don't even have the balls to confront me like you did that day, 'cause they don't wanna see me shut that shit down in front of their wives."

"Like you said, I don't scare easy," Rick says, wriggling free from Negan's hold.

"See you next time, Rick."

The drive home is quiet and pensive, like a four-wheeled walk of shame. Rick keys in quietly, and suddenly he's a teenager again sneaking in past curfew. There are no broken windows, no signs of a break-in. The house is, as far as Rick can tell, undisturbed. He breathes a sigh of relief that's too loud in the stillness.

There's a sound from upstairs, wood groaning underfoot, and Rick reflexively reaches for the gun that isn't holstered on his right hip. But peering around the corner and down the staircase is Carl, looking half-asleep and very confused that he's just caught his father sneaking into the house.

He's also holding Judith, which is a bit of a surprise.

"Dad?"

Rick isn't sure what to say here, so he just says nothing.

"Did you go out?"

Rick nods, says, "Yeah," in case Carl can't see him very well in the darkness. He climbs the stairs. "Everything alright?"

"No," Carl sneers. "She fell out of her bed and hurt herself."

As Rick gets closer, he can see Judith has her face buried in Carl's t-shirt, can hear her soft blubbering whimpers. He reaches for her, but Carl sort of turns away.

"Oh, now you care?" Carl snaps, his voice low and seething. "What are you doing, leaving us alone in the middle of the night? What would Mom think?"

Rick feels something inside himself shatter. Carl inherited a lot of traits from his mother, including her tendency for low blows and cutting remarks intended to fatally wound.

"I didn't think I'd be gone that long," Rick says lamely.

"No, you just didn't think." Carl makes a disgusted sound and hands Judith off to him. "Take her." Before Rick can protest, Carl stomps off to his room and shuts the door.

Rick looks at his daughter, her cheeks red and splotchy from crying, and if he ever needed a sign that this arrangement with Negan is wrong, here it is in huge fucking neon letters.

"I'm sorry," Rick murmurs, holding her close. Judith wraps her tiny arms around his neck, as though fearing he'd let her fall. He rubs her back to soothe her and makes his way into her bedroom. "Your mom wouldn't like me very much anymore if she saw me," he says, gently laying her back into bed. "I don't either."

Judith is fading fast. Rick brushes a hand over her hair, thumb gliding over her cheek. He watches her eyelids droop and eventually close, watches her breathing even out as she falls asleep. She is too pure, too perfect, and Rick hates himself.

Rick takes his phone out of his pocket and stares at the screen for a moment before composing a text to Negan: _I can't come over again. I need to be home more. I'm sorry._

Negan shoots a reply a minute later: **You're breaking up with me over text? Pussy.**

Rick sighs.


	7. Chapter 7

_Two days later..._

Rick rarely visits murder scenes, primarily because they're not too common in King County. He's seen his unholy share of dead bodies—hard to beat the bloody, vomit-inducing aftereffects of a car accident—but murder still shakes him up in a way that leaves him wanting to hug his kids and never let go.

Rick stares down at the first corpse. Diane Eastman stares back with dead, unblinking eyes. Her throat has been slashed in a ragged, gaping wound. She bled out on the Oriental rug on the living room floor.

And yet, the sight of a violently murdered woman isn't the worst of it. Upstairs are the similarly-violated corpses of Eastman's children, a boy and a girl, both younger than Carl. Rick hasn't gone upstairs yet, doesn't know if he wants to. His breath's already coming in hurried gulps just thinking about it.

"You okay?" Hershel Greene, the medical examiner, asks Rick. With his kind eyes and long white hair and beard, he looks like Santa Claus. Tenderly, he pushes blood-caked strands of hair off Diane Eastman's face with gloved hands.

Rick nods. "I'm fine. I gotta be."

"It's okay not to be fine," Hershel says, his eyes watery with tears. For someone who sees death on a regular basis, Hershel is surprisingly sensitive. He performs every autopsy with the utmost care and respect, as though he might be able to bring his patients back. "The day this stuff stops eating at you, well, that's about the time to pack it in."

Shane enters from the front door. He'd stayed outside and talked to the husband, John Eastman, while Rick and Hershel went inside. "He wants to talk to you," Shane announces, looking at Rick.

Rick's surprised until he isn't. Shane can be a bit gruff sometimes, and it makes sense Eastman would want to talk to someone who's also been touched by the cruel, cold hand of tragedy.

"Why don't you go talk to him and I'll take care of this?"

Rick wants to argue that he can handle this, but honestly he'd rather talk to the husband.

Rick gets to his feet and finds John Eastman sitting on the porch steps. His balding head is buried in his hands, but he's not sobbing.

"John?"

Eastman looks at him. His eyes are shattered marbles.

"I'm so sorry," Rick says, because there's not much else _to_ say. He joins Eastman there, sitting on the first step and turning his body to face him.

"I don't understand..."

A huge percentage of murders like this are committed by the husband, but Rick knows Eastman didn't do it. Naïve? Probably. But Rick can sense the grief emanating from him in waves, like heat off a sidewalk.

"Can I ask you some questions?" Rick says.

Eastman manages a nod.

"So you just came home from work?"

Eastman is a forensic psychiatrist at West Georgia Correctional.

"What happened?"

It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, or at least put them into words. "I came home. And I found her..." Eastman's voice trails off. "Then I went upstairs, hoping the kids were hiding somewhere, but they were already..."

Rick shuts his eyes in pain. If anything like this happened to Carl or Judith...

No. Don't go there. Focus.

"Did you notice anything missing?"

Eastman gives a faint shrug, still staring out at the front yard and the drove of police vehicles parked in the driveway. "No. Not yet. But Diane still had her wedding ring. They would have taken that..."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Diane?"

Eastman shakes his head slowly, dazed. "Everyone loves her, Rick."

Still using present tense.

Rick considers the crime from every angle. Eastman interviews some of the most evil people in the state. Could the perpetrator be one of his patients? "What about you? Anyone who might want to hurt you?"

"I don't... They're all locked up. I don't know how they would..."

"Give me names. We'll check 'em out."

The front door opens, and a body is wheeled out on a gurney, covered in a black tarp. Eastman's already-devastated face caves in, and he can't seem to tear away his gaze.

"John," Rick says, but Eastman doesn't hear him. "John, I need your head in this, okay? Can you think of anyone who could have done this?"

Eastman is quiet for a moment, then: "Crighton Dallas Wilton."

What a perfect serial killer name. Rick thinks of other famous three-named murderers: John Wayne Gacy, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Wilkes Booth, Henry Lee Lucas...

"He was a patient of mine at the prison," Eastman continues, his voice hollow and ghostlike. "He had done... horrible, unspeakable acts, and it was my job to evaluate him. On the surface, he was charming. Too charming. Too likable. Said all the right things, went to therapy. But I saw right through him. I knew what he was: a psychopath who knew how to play people. When I was interviewing him, there was this moment... where I knew that Crighton knew that I knew exactly what he was. And he stood up, smiled, and just cracked me across the face. He got me on the ground, and I saw his eyes. His evil. He was gonna kill me right there because he knew I would never let him get out of prison."

"And you didn't?" Rick's presuming this because Eastman's not dead.

"I turned my assessment into the parole board. I didn't hear that he'd been released. But he's the only person I can think of who would want to destroy everything I love."

Rick takes a deep breath. "Alright. We'll look into him. We're gonna find the person who did this."

"It doesn't matter," Eastman says. "It's already over for me."

Rick wants to argue that it's never over, that he thought the same thing too after Lori died, but Rick has Judith and Carl. What does Eastman have now to convince him that life is worth living? Once you've lost everything, _is_ life worth living?

Rick stands up and says, "I'm sorry," again before heading back into the house.

* * *

Negan texts Rick in the late evening while he's making dinner: **Shit, tell me you aren't handling that triple murder case.**

Rick stares at the message for a moment. Steam from the boiling pot of water on the stove fogs up the screen. This is their first correspondence since their separation the other night (Rick refuses to call it a break-up, because his life is not a Taylor Swift song), and he wonders what it means, why Negan chose to contact him now.

Rick types a reply: _Okay, I won't._

The phone vibrates on the countertop a moment later. Rick glances at the screen but doesn't pick up the phone.

(Thursday 6:42 PM)

 **God damn. Are you okay?**

Could Negan possibly care about Rick as more than just a sex partner? Negan had been the one to push for friendship, and Rick thinks it's entirely possible that Negan is just lonely and latching onto the first person who doesn't write him off as an asshole. But it's also possible he views Rick as a friend. A friend he's stuck his cock into, but a friend nonetheless.

(Thursday 6:44 PM)

 _I will be_

(Thursday 6:45 PM)

 **Well if you need to talk your shit out, I'm here.**

Rick doesn't know how to answer that, startled by this new level of intimacy they seem to have tumbled into. He pockets his phone and finishes cooking.

Over dinner, Carl is worryingly quiet. He must have heard about the triple murder and extrapolated horrific possibilities, perhaps the same ones banging around in Rick's head like tennis balls.

"We'll catch him," Rick says softly.

Carl nods. "I know."

"You don't have to be scared."

"I'm not."

"It's okay if you are."

"I told you I'm not," Carl says, rolling his eyes.

Rick looks at Judith, who is happily eating spaghetti and seems to be completely untouched by any of this. She has no idea what's out there, none of the fears that keep Rick awake at night. He envies her.

After Judith has been put to bed and Carl's bedroom light has gone out, Rick pours himself a drink. He thinks he's entitled after the shitfest of despair he witnessed today. He walks around the darkened living room as though on night watch, sipping at his glass of Jack.

He thinks about John Eastman, if he's doing the same thing as Rick tonight. Would he even want to stay in the house where his family was murdered? Or would he refuse to leave, wanting to preserve the last traces of them?

That poor man.

There are blows you can take and get back up from; Rick doesn't know if that's one of them.

If Judith had been in the car with Lori that day... If someone had broken in the other night when Rick left his children alone...

Rick shudders though he isn't cold. He could be Eastman right now.

He could be Eastman at any point in the future, because misfortune does not discriminate. People rarely get their fair share of suffering; sometimes good people are beaten down by loss, and bad people escape with barely a scratch. Just because Rick lost his wife in a car accident doesn't mean he has reached his life's maximum tragedy quota. There may very well be more to come.

In a job like Rick's, it's easy to focus on the negative, because the police are rarely called for celebrations. Rick has seen cruel domestic violence and bone-shattering accidents and tragic suicides and overdoses and grisly murders.

But he has also seen good things, too. The beginning of new life. The blossoming of romance. Maggie and Glenn are in love and having a baby. Tara and Rosita are getting married and starting their lives together. Morgan and Carol have put aside their failed past marriages and attempted to try again. There is something noble in the almost blindingly naïve act of surrendering your heart to another person. Because there is no guarantee it won't be broken, either by death or betrayal or the misfortune of unrequited affection.

It is sometimes said that all love stories end in tragedy. You either fall out of love, or you live long enough to watch your soulmate die.

Jeez, Rick's a depressing motherfucker tonight. He swallows down the rest of the Jack, hoping it will help him rest easy.

A sound at the top of the stairs turns his head. Carl's standing there, and Rick feels like he's in a groundhog day loop of this moment, because his life cannot just be a series of late nights with whiskey on his breath and Carl catching him drowning his sorrows.

"Everything all right?" Rick asks.

"Can't sleep. Maybe I should start drinking too."

"Very funny," Rick says, not amused. "Why don't you come down here? I wanna talk to you."

Carl heaves a theatrical sigh and takes the stairs with a lazy teenage gait, like he's in no hurry to reach the bottom. "What?"

Rick sits on the couch, pats the empty space beside him. "Sit down."

"Oh no, a sit-down talk?" Carl groans, but obeys, dropping bonelessly onto the couch. "What did I do?"

Rick turns to face him. "You didn't do anything. This is all me. I'm sorry about the other night. I screwed up. It was my judgment call, and it was wrong. I put you and Judith in danger because I was selfish. It won't happen again."

Carl's brow creases in confusion. "Where'd you even go?"

"I was at a friend's house. Someone I've been... seeing. But it's over now. I ended it."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

Rick hadn't expected that response.

"I don't care if you wanna date someone," Carl says. "But you've been lying to me and sneaking out of the house. That's what I'm supposed to do."

"Well, you're not _supposed_ to..." Again, Rick focuses on semantics in order to dodge the real question.

More eye-rolls. "You know what I mean."

They sit there quietly for a moment before Judith cries from upstairs. On instinct, Carl moves to get up.

Rick stops him. "I'll get her." He goes upstairs and retrieves Judith from her bed. Her tears seem to slow as soon as Rick shows up. He picks her up, lets her cry into his t-shirt. "Bad dream? A lot of those goin' around lately."

He carries her downstairs, sits on the couch and cradles her in his arms. Judith's sobs grow quieter as Rick rubs slow circles over her back to calm her.

Carl reaches out and tucks a strand of Judith's hair behind her ear. "How come you didn't tell me?" he asks Rick.

Where to start with that one? Rick ignores the two obvious answers. "I didn't know how you'd react." Okay, not entirely a lie. "I worried you'd think I was trying to replace your mom."

Carl huffs a tiny sound of exasperation. "I'm not a kid anymore. I get it. Why you wanna be with somebody again. And it's okay. Mom wouldn't want—" He shakes his head as though shaking off the wavering emotion in his voice. "Mom wouldn't want you to be alone."

Lori probably wouldn't want Rick getting his ass blasted by Carl's baseball coach either.

"I can watch Judith if you wanna go out," Carl says. "But you have to ask first. You can't just run off and expect me to do everything."

"I know. And I won't. I broke it off."

"Why?"

"It didn't seem like a good idea."

"But she likes you, right? If somebody likes you, you should just go for it."

Rick isn't sure he should take dating advice from a fifteen-year-old, no matter how sound it may seem.

"It's her, isn't it? The person you've been texting?"

Rick nods.

"You, like, never text," Carl says, like he's making a point.

Rick also never makes booty calls or signs up for casual sex with no strings. Negan has certainly broadened Rick's horizons.

Judith has fallen asleep in Rick's lap. Her tiny fingers are still clutched in the front of his shirt.

Carl pushes off the couch. "G'nite, Dad," he says, heading for the stairs.

"Thank you," Rick says, because he honestly didn't expect Carl to accept the concept of Rick starting to date again. Even though whatever he has with Negan absolutely isn't dating.

He watches Carl climb the stairs and disappear down the hallway. Then he watches Judith sleep, stricken by how much he loves his children, how they're living, breathing pieces of Lori.

Carefully, Rick extricates his phone from the pocket of his pajamas. He's gotten into the habit of carrying it around everywhere in case of an emergency. He opens his conversation with Negan and types: _I can't stop thinking about Eastman. What he's doing right now. How he's handling what happened. Then I think that I could have been him. When I left Carl and Judith the other night, someone could have come in and... Someone still could._

(Friday 3:22 AM)

 **But you'll be there. You sleep with a gun under your pillow, right?**

(Friday 3:23 AM)

 _I can't lose anyone else_

(Friday 3:25 AM)

 _Carl seems okay with the idea of me seeing someone. But if we're still gonna do this, you have to come here. I can't leave them alone._

(Friday 3:26 AM)

 **Are you unbreaking up with me over text? Pussy.**

Rick stares at the text for a moment. He might be about to do something very stupid.

He clicks on 'Lucifer' and presses the call button. When Negan answers, Rick says, "Is this better?"

"Prick," Negan chuckles.


	8. Chapter 8

Crighton Dallas Wilton is nowhere to be found. West Georgia Correctional reported him missing the day of the murder, which Rick finds awfully suspicious. That doesn't exactly prove Crighton did it, but it definitely makes him a person of interest. Too bad he's gone off the radar. Now King County has a mass murderer on the loose.

No reason to panic or anything.

Carl, being a teenager, has nothing to do on a Friday evening, and since he's served his two-week house arrest punishment—and put up with more of Rick's shit than entirely necessary—Rick allows him to go to a friend's house. Carl chooses Enid, who lives only a couple blocks away, and Rick drives him there (much to Carl's dismay and embarrassment) and makes sure Enid's parents are home before letting Carl go inside the house. He's not taking any chances with some bloodthirsty murderer roaming the streets.

"Make sure you don't leave this house by yourselves," Rick warns him. Carl rolls his eyes. "I'm serious. Have one of her parents drive you home or wherever you want to go. No going off by yourselves."

"Okay, okay, I promise."

Rick doesn't think Enid and Carl will get into too much trouble while her parents are home. And if Carl thinks Rick approves of Enid's less law-abiding behavior, the allure of rebellion will chip away. At least, Rick's hoping it will.

But it's not like he's going to keep Carl cooped up in the house for the rest of his life. Let the kid live a little.

Parenting. It ain't for sissies.

When Rick gets back home, it's just him and Judith in the quiet house. Rick doesn't really have anything to do this evening, and while the idea of lazing on the couch watching Netflix all night is appealing, it's not very productive.

His phone feels like a block of hot lead in his jeans' pocket. Unable to resist its siren call, he pulls it out and types: _I'm free tonight, if you're not doing anything._

Negan's reply is lightning-fast: **Hot damn.**

Rick sends Negan his address and waits.

It takes about five minutes for Negan to show up, knocking briskly on the front door like he's a peppy Mormon looking to spread the good news. Holding Judith in one arm, Rick opens the door to be greeted with Negan's impish, offensively-white smile.

"Well, how do, Sheriff Grimes?" Negan says in a Southern drawl so rich you could drizzle it over pancakes. "Do you often take gentlemen callers?"

"Drop the accent," Rick says with a smile. "You're a Yankee."

"Hi!" Judith pipes up, interrupting their banter.

Negan smiles at her, and Rick's a little disarmed himself. "Well, hey there. You must be Judith. I'm your Uncle Negan."

Rick gives him a sassy look.

"What, you wanna tell her the truth?"

He's got a point.

Rick lets Negan step inside. "It's her bedtime anyway."

"I hope she's a deep sleeper."

Rick feels his face flush. He carries Judith upstairs to her room, hears a second set of footsteps behind him. He turns his head to see Negan ascending the stairs. "You're just walkin' around like you own the place, huh?"

"Bed's upstairs, right? And I'm assuming you didn't call me over for a chat."

"If I didn't know better I'd think you only like me for my body."

"Well, it ain't half bad."

Rick hears himself laugh, then Judith laughs too, which throws him right the fuck off, because there's no way she understood that, is there?

"Aw, see, she thinks I'm funny," Negan says with glee.

"She's too young to know better," Rick volleys back.

Judith puts up minimal fuss about bedtime, but she's yawning through her protests, so Rick just tucks her into bed and waits for sleep to wash over her. He's acutely aware of Negan's presence loitering in the doorway, and it makes him vaguely self-conscious like Negan's judging his parenting skills.

"Hell of a nice place," Negan murmurs.

"It's a little too big now that it's just the three of us." Rick rises to his feet when Judith's eyes close in sleep. He places a hand on Negan's chest to ease him out of the doorway. Negan goes willingly, lets Rick clutch a hand in his shirt and pull him in the direction of the bedroom.

Negan cocks an eyebrow. "God damn, you're a buzzkill. You're not allowed to talk 'til we're finished."

Rick shuts the bedroom door with his foot, gets Negan on the bed and climbs into his lap. "You do enough talkin' for both of us," he says with a smirk. Negan is always pretty vocal about Rick's performance, huffing out profanity-laden compliments as they move together.

Negan gets Rick naked in record time (seriously, it's like a superpower), lifts Rick's hips up so he can sink him down on his cock. Rick groans a long, throaty noise, bowing over him as his body shakes. They've never done it this way before, but they fit together like two slotted puzzle pieces.

"C'mon, you can do it," Negan says, squeezing Rick's hips for a little jolt. Rick grunts and shifts, shoving back into the hilt of Negan's cock. Negan purrs in satisfaction, reaches over to the night table and grabs Rick's sheriff's hat. He drops it onto Rick's head and says, "Ride me, cowboy," with a grin, knowing he'll get a frowny, flushed expression out of Rick when he makes cowboy jokes.

Rick groans and tries to adjust the rhythm of his own hips to match Negan's. Their hands are clasped in an unusually intimate way as Rick sinks and rises on Negan's cock. Rick loves the stretched, full feeling, how Negan's dick twitches inside of him when he's close, the iron grip of wide hands wrapped around his hips, guiding him to move in just the right way.

Being with Negan is a learning experience, and Rick has already gathered that Negan's having a damn good time if he's forgotten words entirely and just grunting and moaning as the tension builds, which is exactly what's happening here. Their hips roll and clash together, and Rick folds over him again, this time shaking apart in a hot mess as his orgasm leaves him light-headed and breathless.

"Fuck," Negan swears, plunging into him with quick, needy thrusts, "I didn't say you could come yet."

"Too late," Rick gasps.

"No talking." Negan's grip tightens, and Rick fucking loves the dig of his fingers, then Negan's making broken noises and filling him up hot and wet. Rick takes it all with a full-body shudder, melting over Negan like a popsicle on a hot sidewalk. "Mmm-mmm-mmm," Negan rumbles, his fingers playing in the damp hair at the back of Rick's neck. "I may have said this before, but you, sir, are a mag-fucking-nificent screw."

Rick's still trying to remember how to breathe. He pushes himself up so he can see Negan's face. "You're not too bad yourself."

Negan gives him a lazy smirk and flicks the brim of Rick's hat with a pop of his fingers. "You've got an awful smart mouth. Must be where Carl gets it."

"He doesn't give you any trouble, does he?"

"No, but his pain-in-the-ass father does." Negan grins, all cocky and self-assured, and Rick wants to kiss his stupid delectable mouth.

Hold the phone. That's weird. He shouldn't be thinking about that. It shouldn't even cross his mind.

Rick just rolls off him and onto the empty space beside Negan on the bed. He stares at the ceiling, tries not to think about Lori or the last time they laid in this bed together. Rick would never cheat on Lori, so the fact that he's here now with someone else means she's truly gone. And the urge to kiss Negan raises more disturbing possibilities that Rick isn't ready to face right now.

"You've never brought anyone here before, have you?" Negan asks, as though reading Rick's mind.

"No."

"Well, don't I feel like the belle of the ball?"

"I told you to stop talkin' like you're in Gone With the Wind."

Negan turns his head to stare at the side of Rick's face. "You first."

Rick gives him a playful smack on the arm. "You don't get to complain about how I talk, Yankee. For God's sake, you root for the Tigers," he says, referring to Negan's Detroit Tigers t-shirt discarded on the floor.

"The Braves suck, Rick. Get over it."

Rick laughs to himself. Never in the past two years has he felt as happy as he does with Negan. Even just these little moments capture something Rick has desperately needed: closeness, feeling like he's at least halfway alive again. And Negan does it seemingly effortlessly, like it's not costing him any emotional energy to share this intimacy with him, so Rick's free to take and take like a laboratory mouse hoarding treat pellets, because he knows Negan can afford to give it.

It's hard not to fall a little in love with someone like that, someone who can breathe life back into long-dead lungs.

Rick forces himself up and finds his clothes on the floor.

"Kickin' me out already?" Negan says. "You sure aren't big on hospitality."

Rick steps into his shorts. "Thought you might be hungry."

"For your cooking?" Negan scoffs, and Rick pouts at him.

"Go downstairs and see what you can tolerate." Rick hears the mattress groan under Negan's shifting weight as he ducks inside the bathroom to freshen up.

When Rick gets dressed and down the stairs, he finds Negan digging through the fridge. He's wearing his t-shirt and jeans, his leather jacket slung over the top of the couch. He looks, Rick thinks, like he belongs here.

"How old is this take-out?" Negan asks, his head poking out of the refrigerator.

"Two days?" Rick guesses.

"Good enough." Negan pulls out the styrofoam container and finds a fork in one of the drawers. He hip-checks the drawer closed, moves for the couch.

"You're not leavin' any for me?"

"We can share."

Rick makes a face.

"So you'll let me put my dick in your ass, but you won't eat out of the same container as me?" Negan rolls his eyes. "You're an idiot, Grimes."

A crude albeit salient point. Rick grabs a fork and joins him on the couch.

God, this is weird. This is _so_ fucking weird, and it should feel weird, but it doesn't. It's almost natural, like Negan could easily fill the voids in Rick's life. Like he was meant to.

Rick steals a glance at him. The sleeve of Negan's shirt is hitched up just enough to expose part of the tattoo on his right arm. Rick wants to touch it, trace it with his finger, but that's probably a little more tender and personal than they ought to be.

 _Don't fuck this up_ , Rick tells himself. It's better to have Negan on-call for no-strings sex than lose everything on a gamble that he might want to date Rick. Didn't Negan say he wasn't looking for a relationship?

Rick's really fucking glad he's got an appointment with Denise tomorrow. He could definitely use a sounding board who's sworn to secrecy.

"You're still thinking about it, aren't you?" Negan says around a mouthful of fried rice. "About that poor bastard who lost everything."

 _Sure, let's go with that._

Rick gives a noncommittal nod, spears a piece of beef. "Hard not to."

"You gotta learn to compartmentalize that shit."

"And how's that working out for you?"

"Other people's shit? Gone and fucking forgotten." Negan takes another bite. "C'mon, Rick, you should be used to this by now."

"I know, it's just... His whole world. Gone. Just like that." Rick shakes his head. "Accidents are bad enough. But murder... To have a person decide to end your life, that's playing God in the most ungodly way."

Negan eats in silence. Rick half-heartedly tugs at the container so he can get a few bites before Negan devours the whole thing.

"And his kids were so young, just barely older than Judith," Rick continues. "Nobody deserves to die like that."

"Well, maybe the guy who killed them," Negan says with a shrug.

Rick nods and makes a noise of agreement. They sit there for a moment and eat until Rick asks, "How'd you meet Lucille?"

Negan smiles fondly as though reminiscing. "She was the receptionist at the office where I got my divorce."

"You were married before?" Rick isn't sure why he's surprised by that, but by the way Negan reveres Lucille it gives the impression there were no other women (or men, for that matter) in his life.

"I was, and she was a serious bitch. Wouldn't give up without a fight, so I ended up at that office a lot. And I guess Lucille liked what she saw. After the papers were signed she asked me, 'wanna get a drink and have sex?' and I fucking loved how goddamn blunt she was. So I said yes." Negan looks at Rick. "What about you and Lori?"

Rick grabs a forkful of rice. "Shane set us up. She was a friend of whatever girlfriend Shane had at the time. We had reservations at a nice restaurant outside of town. It's not there anymore."

"Must not've been that nice."

Rick fights a smile. "Lori and I thought things'd go south once Shane and his girl broke up, but everything was fine between us. I'm still not really sure what she saw in me."

"Chicks dig a man in uniform."

"Apparently so do you."

"I'm a simple man with simple pleasures," Negan says, draping an arm over the back of the couch, like he wanted it to fall over Rick's shoulders but missed the mark, and Rick yearns.

* * *

"I met someone," Rick says, pacing the floor of Dr. Denise Cloyd's tiny office. There is no fainting couch like in the movies, just a couple chairs (a leather, wheeled one for Denise and two basic ones for patients), a large wooden desk, and a small assortment of potted plants. Along the wall is a bookshelf crammed with various textbooks and non-fiction books.

Rick has brought Judith along today, and she's sitting in Rick's chair as he moves about the room like a sluggish caged lion. Her attention is focused entirely on the oversized book in her hands; she can't read on her own yet, but she likes the pictures.

"You did? That's great!" Denise says. "That's progress! How do you feel about that?"

Rick drags a hand through his hair, stares out the second-floor window and watches the cars go by on the street below. "It's complicated. I'm starting to feel things, things I haven't felt in a long time. And I'm afraid to take that step, 'cause if I'm wrong, if this isn't—It could screw everything up."

"What does Carl think about you starting to date again?"

Rick shakes his head. "I haven't told him. He's okay with it in theory, but... There are a lot of reasons he wouldn't accept it."

"Want to tell me about them?"

Rick does; that's why he's here. Denise is bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. Nothing he says here will leave this room. He can be completely honest with no repercussions.

"It's a guy," Rick says, letting that one sink in. Denise looks unsurprised. "Carl doesn't even know I'm—I mean, Lori and I raised him not to judge, but... I'm his father. It's different. And the guy is someone Carl doesn't like, so I don't know how he would handle that."

"Those don't sound like unsurmountable obstacles. Carl might be able to accept it, given some time."

"Well, what about everyone else?" Rick says, turning to face her. "You think people are just gonna quietly accept the widowed sheriff dating again—dating a guy? No, it's gonna be a huge _thing_. And I know they mean well, but I already let them feed off my pain over losing Lori. They don't get to have this too."

It's something he's never really voiced before, and a sick, twisted part of him is grateful Eastman is now the town's sob story, that the crown of tragedy has been passed on to some other poor fucking sap who must endure being coddled by well-meaning onlookers to his grief.

"How does the guy feel about this?" Denise asks.

Rick shrugs. "I don't know if a relationship is something he wants. I don't know if it's something I want either, but I'm feeling things and thinking things... I didn't use to think about that stuff before."

"What do you _want_ to do?"

"I want to try." Rick imagines telling Negan about the way his heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest when he looks at him, and a weird mix of nausea and glee rears up in his gut. Then he thinks about Negan's probable response: a chilling laugh and grin of cold amusement, as though he can't believe Rick Grimes is fucking naïve enough to fall for him like a schoolgirl. "I thought I fuckin' told you the law of the land, Rick," Negan would say. "None of this boyfriend shit. Do you really think I wanna stick around and raise your kids and do all that domestic horseshit, like we're some picturesque gay couple in a Hallmark ad?" He would laugh and fix Rick with that stare that shakes him up inside. "You really thought you had me, didn't ya, Sheriff?"

"Do or do not," Denise says. "There is no 'try.'"

"Did you really just quote Star Wars?"

Denise gives him a sheepish smile. "If the shoe fits."

Rick starts pacing again. "I want to tell him, but I can't. 'Cause if he doesn't..."

"It seems very important to you that he's part of your life."

"'Cause he gets it," Rick says. "He lost his wife too."

"Do you think it's possible he might be feeling the same way about you?"

Rick hears himself laugh. "No. No way."

"And why is that?"

 _Because he's Negan,_ Rick wants to say. He tries to think of a less ridiculous reason, but all of them fall apart before they leave his mouth. Negan fell hard for Lucille, so clearly romantic attraction is not alien to him. He finds Rick attractive enough to bang, so there's that. And he seemed wistful when talking about his potential future as a father, so Rick's having children might not be a dealbreaker.

All Rick can do is sort of shrug as if to say _because reasons_. Which isn't the best argument, but it's all he's got.

"Speaking as Denise the Friend, can I give you my opinion?"

"Knock yourself out."

"I know it's scary, and you probably thought all this was behind you when you got married, but sooner or later you're gonna have to try again. And I'm happy for you that you feel ready enough to try here, that you're even thinking about it. But you'll never get anywhere if you don't take that step."

Rick doesn't believe in fate or a guiding hand engineering circumstances or events. Things just happen, through people's action or inaction. But he can't see this cluster of bad omens as anything but flashing neon signs warning him against pursuing anything with Negan. If Rick wrote out a pros and cons list, the cons would read:

\- Everyone all up in your business for the remainder of time, because, yeah, Aaron and Eric Raleigh are King County's token gay couple, but neither of them are the town sheriff and a grungy smart-ass high school coach.

\- Carl will hate you for the rest of his life, or at least until he's out of college.

\- An elected official will probably have zero trouble being openly not-heterosexual in a state where it's legal to fire someone because of their sexuality.

So yeah, there's the fact that both Rick and Negan could lose their fucking jobs over this.

Is it really worth it?

Look at the pros, then.

\- Mind-blowing sex (Yeah, Rick's putting that on the top of the list. Sue him).

\- Someone to come home to at the end of the day and wake up next to in the morning.

\- Another parental figure in the lives of Judith and Carl.

\- Feeling less broken when you're with him.

God, that last one is so important Rick's almost willing to throw caution to the wind on that alone.

"Rick?" Denise says, because Rick's been pacing the floor of her office for a while now, and it's probably irritating as all hell. "You seem to be in deep thought."

"Yeah, I'm just thinking." Captain Obvious. "About telling him. Maybe I should."

"It's your decision, Rick, but speaking as Denise the Friend again, I think you'll be a lot happier if you do."

Rick thinks so too.

Now if only he could stop being a chickenshit and just _tell_ Negan.


	9. Chapter 9

Crighton Dallas Wilton's corpse is found on Sunday morning in John Eastman's home. He was stabbed more times than Rick can count, his throat slit in a garish, gaping wound so deep it nearly decapitated him. His shirt looks like someone dumped a bucket of syrup over it. Rick's stomach does backflips at the sight. Fresh blood fills the air with a smell like wet rust.

What's worse is seeing Shane lead Eastman out of the house with his hands cuffed in front of him. Eastman's eyes are even more downcast and dead inside than the last time Rick saw him, which is pretty fucking impressive considering the circumstances of their last encounter. The front of his shirt is covered in blood. Their eyes meet, and Rick thinks something profound is shared between them, though he doesn't know what.

Hershel's crouched over the corpse, making a small slit to get to the liver.

"Shane," Rick says.

"Yeah?"

"Let me take 'im."

Shane gives Rick a curious look, but he hands Eastman over to him without argument.

Rick takes Eastman to the police cruiser, loads him in the back. Eastman goes willingly, which is definitely not something Rick's used to.

"Tell me what happened," Rick says once Eastman's situated in the back seat of the cruiser.

Eastman's voice is barely a whisper. "I thought I explained on the phone." Ten minutes ago the department received a call from Eastman confessing to Wilton's murder and surrendering himself to police custody.

"You said you killed him. Didn't say much else."

Eastman stares straight ahead at nothing in particular. "I knew it was him. Nothing else made sense. After our interviews, I had a good idea of where to find him. It was dark, late. I waited until he left the bar. He was alone. I grabbed him, put a chloroform rag over his mouth. Tied him up and put him in the backseat. Drove him here, and..."

Christ, what a mess.

With a shaky hand, Rick reaches into his pocket and opens his wallet. He plucks out a business card and tucks it into the sticky breast pocket of Eastman's t-shirt. "Don't sign a confession without calling a lawyer. Her number's on the card. She'll get you a good deal."

Eastman turns his head to look at Rick. His brow is creased with pain. "Why?"

"'Cause it's her job."

"I mean why are you helping me?"

Rick rubs a hand over his mouth. "'Cause I would want someone to do the same for me." And he can't wrap his head around the idea that Eastman is a bad person, because Rick thinks they're not entirely dissimilar. What would Rick do if he came home to find Carl and Judith slaughtered? The result might be a lot like this. When your family is hurt or in danger, when you've got nothing to lose or live for... something snaps inside of you. And a small, silent part of Rick respects that savagery in defense of family.

Eastman nods in understanding, but the look in his eyes is so far away Rick wonders if he understands anything at all.

* * *

It doesn't take Eastman very long to lawyer up. Rick's finishing some paperwork when Michonne, Eastman's attorney, approaches the desk. "Thanks for the referral," she says. She's wearing a sinful red blouse and black trousers. Her long dreads are tied back into a loose ponytail.

"I thought you could use it."

"Business is booming," she says with a smile.

Lori met Michonne at a yoga class after Judith was born. The two women became fast friends, and occasionally Michonne and her husband Mike would come over to the Grimes' house for dinner. After Lori died, Michonne dropped by to check on Rick, giving him chiding looks and motivational speeches when she found him drunk in the middle of the day.

"Well, look at you," Michonne says when she gets closer. "You took off your ring?"

Rick looks at his hands. The band of silver once wrapped around his third finger is gone. He took it off last night after a long, hard look at himself and his feelings for Negan. Whatever these feelings might be, he thought it was inappropriate to have or pursue them with a ring on his finger. So he stored it safely in a small cigar box in his top drawer, adding his wedding band to the small collection of photos and trinkets too painful to display.

"It was probably time," Rick says, playing casual, like it's no big deal.

But Michonne has a nose like a bloodhound for lies and false bravado. She leans forward, her hands planted on the desk. Rick can smell her perfume, or maybe it's the detergent she uses. "You met somebody?"

Rick can't fight the way a smile worms its way onto his mouth. "Thinkin' about it."

"You bat those pretty blue eyes at a girl and you won't have to think for long."

Rick does exactly that, which makes her laugh. "How come we never hooked up?" It's a running joke between them, based on a comment Lori made about how well they get along.

"Because I'm married?"

"Nah, it was somethin' else."

Michonne laughs again, the sound soft and musical.

"How's Eastman?" Rick asks. "You think you can get him a good deal?"

"I can try. Maybe get him put in a psychiatric facility instead of prison."

"He'll be killed in prison. Surrounded by all those inmates he kept there." Rick shuts his eyes.

Michonne seems to understand why Rick's so shaken up by this. "I'd mention that to the judge. Get him moved somewhere safer. It won't be too hard to find a sympathetic jury."

"He was just a normal guy," Rick says, mostly to himself.

"Nobody's normal." Michonne shifts her body and places a hand on her hip. "You never know what kind of industrial-strength shit someone's keeping inside. Or hiding. The things you see on this job..." She shakes her head. "I don't know how you trust anyone."

Rick wonders about that, feels something creep up his spine like a spider.

"I gotta go," Michonne says, placing a hand over Rick's. "Take care of yourself. And let me know how that date goes."

"What date?"

Michonne gives him a look like it's exhausting navigating the dense forest of his obtuseness. "Have a good one, Rick."

Rick watches her leave. Something Michonne said started up a scratching in the back of his brain that won't leave him alone.

 _I don't know how you trust anyone._

Does he? And most importantly, does he trust Negan? If Rick has been inflating this relationship in his head, shouldn't he do the most basic thing and run a background check on him before diving into anything serious? Rick supposes he hadn't breached that step for fear of admitting to himself that this, whatever it is, is real. But he's already taken off his wedding ring, so shit has gotten real enough.

Rick knows very little about Negan's past, or even how Lucille died. Could Negan have killed her and left town? It's a little far-fetched, but not impossible. However, his criminal record is probably clean enough considering he's employed by the school, but as part of the legal system Rick has access to things that wouldn't be on a criminal record.

Do the work. Do the research.

Find out.

Rick pulls up the records search on the nearby laptop. He types in Negan's name and says a silent prayer.

The search spits back two seemingly innocuous results. Apparently Negan has been brought in for police questioning twice within the last year and a half. The reasons, however, make Rick's mouth go dry.

 _Person of interest re: murder of Dwight Carr._

 _Person of interest re: death of Lucille Dwyer._

Rick sits back and takes a breath. Okay, let's look at this coldly. It's not like Negan was arrested or charged with anything. Just questioned. Lucille was Negan's wife, so it's obvious why he was questioned regarding her death. As for the murder...

Maybe it was one of Negan's friends or neighbors. No reason to suspect the worst.

Except... Negan didn't tell Rick about any of this. Could he have just assumed Rick already checked into him? Possibly. Could he be hiding something? Also possible.

Eastman's words echo in Rick's head: _On the surface, he was charming. Too charming. Too likable. Said all the right things._

 _I knew what he was: a psychopath who knew how to play people._

Has Negan been playing Rick this whole time?

Not entirely. Rick saw the devastation on Negan's face when he talked about losing Lucille. That wasn't manufactured. That was real. Whether it was guilt over being culpable in her death, Rick doesn't know.

He should hear Negan's side of the story before jumping to alarmist conclusions. Honestly, he's a little surprised Negan doesn't have _more_ on his rap sheet.

But it does make him wonder, a little voice of doubt and suspicion that won't go away.

* * *

After dinner that evening, Carl asks, "So, Dad, there's a party at Noah's tonight..." He's sitting on the living room floor, playing with Judith. He hides a ball of play-doh beneath one of three red plastic cups and jumbles them around for her to find.

"Noah?" Rick realizes he's completely out of the loop in regards to Carl's friends.

"He's a senior. He's on the Saviors. Third base."

"Oh." He remembers Noah now. A decent, polite kid. "How'd you get invited to an upperclassman party?"

Carl rolls his eyes. "We're teammates. We're cool."

"So I assume you wanna go to this party?" Rick's cleaning up the kitchen, stuffing empty soda cans and pizza boxes into the garbage.

"It'd be nice," Carl says. "You caught that guy, right? Who killed those people?"

"Doesn't mean it's safe."

Carl sighs. "Dad..."

What would Lori do, Rick wonders for the umpteenth time. She spoiled Carl a little, making Rick the bad guy by default most of the time. Would she let him go to the party or view it as a haven of teenage debauchery?

At some point Rick's gonna have to start trusting Carl. If he never lets Carl do things on his own, what does that say about Rick's faith in his own parenting?

"Where does Noah live?"

"A couple blocks away. Like, five minutes."

"Okay. Get in the car."

Carl makes an exasperated noise but cuts it off, like he knows too much protestation will change Rick's mind. He grabs Judith and heads for the garage.

Rick drives Carl past two streets and deposits him a few houses down from Noah's, as to not completely embarrass him. He can already hear the dull bass thump of dubstep leaking from the house. Three teenagers linger on the front porch, laughing over the music.

Rick would be a liar if he said he never went to parties just like this when he was Carl's age, except swap Skrillex for Prince. And looking back, they weren't so bad. Mostly just awkward adolescents looking to have fun and listen to loud music. You go to parties because you're afraid you'll miss something. But nothing ever happens.

"Call me or text me when you're ready to come home," Rick reminds him as Carl gets out of the passenger seat. "And I'll be here. But no later than midnight."

"Okay," Carl says like he's in a hurry. He shuts the door and jogs toward the party. Rick waits until Carl is safely inside the house before heading home.

Car rides, even short ones, make Judith sleepy, so when they make it home Rick gets her ready for bed. She's yawning as her head touches the pillow. "Story?" she says in a small, tired voice.

Rick knows she means the Frozen storybook, which has been Judith's favorite for the last couple weeks. He starts to read it to her, but she's asleep before Anna even meets Hans. Judith lies there, her eyes closed as she drifts off to sleep. Rick stays there, watching his daughter's face, and he is suddenly overwhelmed by how much he loves her, by how terrified he is to lose her.

Judith will never remember her mother. She had been too young when Lori died, and while there might be some subconscious pang that something isn't right anymore, Judith won't feel Lori's absence the way Carl will. To Judith, Lori will be an abstract concept, a sad thing that happened to Dad and Carl.

When Judith's breathing is deep and even, Rick sees himself out and switches off the overhead light. The butterfly-shaped nightlight in the corner immediately flicks on, filling the room with a soft, calming glow. Rick leaves the door slightly ajar and heads downstairs. He turns his phone off vibrate, anticipating Carl's text or call. As he takes his phone out of his pocket, he sees a new text from Negan: **what does the fuckin Picasso of loneliness have planned tonight?**

This would be the perfect opportunity to talk to Negan about what Rick saw on the police record. So Rick texts back: _why don't you come over._

Negan replies: **hot diggety dog, you read my mind.**

Rick's kind of exhausted from his nightmare of a day, so he nestles into the couch and doesn't plan on moving unless there's an emergency. His feet are propped up on the coffee table, his head tipped back as he closes his eyes.

A knock at the door jolts him awake just as he started to drift off. "It's open," Rick says, and Negan steps inside like he lives here. He's wearing his typical "uniform"—leather jacket, t-shirt, impossibly low-slung dark jeans, and a predatory smile. He takes a look at Rick's prostrate form and says, "Long day?"

"I don't even know where to start."

Negan drops besides him onto the couch, kicking his feet up as well. "Tell me the most fucked up part, then." He's got to know about the discovery of Crighton Dallas Wilton's body, so the fact that he's asking is oddly heartwarming, like he cares about Rick and wants to hear about his day.

Like they're a couple.

Rick exhales a long sigh. "You didn't hear about the murder?"

"Ain't that some shit?"

"That poor guy. The really fucked up part is I don't know if I can blame him."

"That's not fucked up."

Rick wonders why Negan has that opinion. Does he cherish family, or is he super-cool with murder?

"He was just a normal guy. Are we all capable of doing something like that?"

"Put this in perspective, Rick. Eastman killed the guy who murdered his wife and kids. I really fucking doubt anyone's scratching their heads wondering what made him do it."

Rick gives voice to one of the questions eating at his brain. "Would you?"

"I would sacrifice some scumbag's life for my family's in a heartbeat."

Rick wonders how to segue into his next set of questions. He doesn't want Negan to feel like he's being interrogated. But they've always had a casual kind of conversation, even when they talked about loss and grief. It might not be too hard to get him talking.

"Is that what happened to Lucille?" Rick asks, treading carefully. "Did someone..."

Negan shakes his head. "Cancer."

Rick can't imagine if that's better or worse than losing a loved one in the blink of an eye. Sure, you get time to accept the idea of losing them and have a chance to tell them everything you need to, but you also have to watch them wither away in agonizingly slow suffering.

"Did you move away 'cause of everything that reminded you of her?"

"I wanted to stay. But I was outvoted," Negan says snidely.

"Outvoted? They exiled you?" It sounds ridiculous, but, hey, a small town could probably do that.

"Informally."

Of course Negan would choose this moment to find a new appreciation for concise speech. Rick's gonna have to drag it out of him, then. "Meaning?"

"There's no point in stickin' around someplace where everyone thinks you killed your wife."

Whoa.

Rick just looks at him. "Why would they think that?"

"C'mon, Sheriff, use your pretty head. The spouse is always the first suspect."

"In an investigation. But if Lucille died of cancer, there wouldn't be any evidence of foul play. Why would your neighbors assume—"

"Why do you give a shit?" Negan cuts in, sounding a mix of furious and tired, like he's been holding on to this for ages.

"'Cause we're friends. And losin' your wife, then having everyone turn on you... Sounds like somethin' you might wanna talk about."

Negan is uncharacteristically silent, his brow furrowed in vexing thought.

Rick says, "If it makes you feel better, you can ask me somethin' afterward. Anything at all, and I'll answer."

Negan gives Rick a look he's never been on the receiving end of before. It's intense as all hell, like Negan's staring into his soul. Rick studies Negan's eyes, searching for signs of malice or evil.

"Alright, Rick, you've been a good boy," Negan says, still keeping his gaze on Rick. "You wanna know what happened? Now you will." He settles into the couch, leather creaking as he moves, and turns his focus forward. "After Lucille and I got married, she got a job at a tattoo parlor. She was an amazing artist with gentle hands. She did all my ink..." His smile twists Rick's heart. "Anyway, after a couple years the place started getting pretty popular—thanks to Lucille—so they added another chair, and the guy who worked it was Dwight Carr."

Rick's breath seizes in his lungs. Dread creeps over him as he realizes where this is going.

"Fucking Dwight," Negan says through his teeth. "Creepy little bastard. He had quite a crush on my Lucille. Hard not to. She was smokin' hot, and if she didn't think you were a total dipshit she'd actually talk to you. She didn't play hard to get: she was. But that didn't stop Dwight. It was harmless flirting until it wasn't. She put up with it a hell of a lot longer than I would've. But after a couple months she finally told her boss, and they fired him."

Negan glances at Rick. "Wanna take a stab at how this one ends?"

Rick finds his mouth has gone dry.

Negan lets loose a deep breath and starts in again. "Now that Dwight had revenge as a motive, he made Lucille's life hell. Stalking her. Lurking around her car when she left work. Finding her on her lunch breaks. Most of the time he didn't even say anything to her. Just wanted her to know he was there. Then one night he was hiding in our motherfucking backyard. I saw him, and we had a little chat. I grabbed him and told him very fucking politely if he ever so much as breathed the same goddamn air as Lucille again, I would turn his brains into fucking squirrel lunch." Negan looks at Rick again. "Dwight was not the sharpest knife in the drawer."

Rick stares back at Negan and waits.

"He didn't live nearby, so Lucille and I were pretty fuckin' curious how he was able to find her everywhere she went. Turns out the little shithead put a GPS tracker on her car. So we went to the police, but wouldn't you know it, they weren't able to link that device to him. So without any hard evidence Dwight was stalking her, all they could do was issue a restraining order. And I'm sure you're familiar with how well those work, aren't you, Rick?"

Rick manages to nod. He can see where this is going but can't stop it, like watching a car skid across ice and off a bridge.

"Of course that didn't keep Dwight away, but he didn't come to our house anymore. I guess he thought he was playing it safe that way. But you tell me, Rick, what was I supposed to do? Lucille had to make sure she wasn't working late at night. If I had to work late, she'd go to a Starbucks or somewhere public and wait for me 'cause she couldn't be at the house by herself. Any time she wanted to go out at night, I had to be with her. And what would happen after she got pregnant? Or after she had the baby? There was no goddamn way I could be there every single second to make sure that shitstain didn't hurt her. And the cops couldn't do anything without hard evidence, which they never got, because Dwight would disappear before the police ever arrived. They were chasing a ghost. The only way there would be any evidence is if he got to her. I could not let that shit stand."

Rick feels his heart sink into deep mud.

Negan goes on, scratching his chin. "So I tracked him down one night. I followed him while he stalked Lucille, then I followed him home. His house was a shitty dump in a shittier neighborhood. The thing should've been condemned, but the building inspector probably couldn't stop laughing long enough to write the summons. I waited until the lights went out, then I snuck in through the back."

"What did you do?" Rick asks, finally finding his voice.

"What the fuck do you think I did? I beat the holy fuckedy fuck out of him. Y'know, if you try hard and believe in yourself, a wooden baseball bat can crack a human skull like an egg." Negan huffs a laugh. "It was gross as shit."

Rick cannot comprehend why Negan's literally confessing to murder in front of the goddamn sheriff. First-fucking-degree murder, as Negan would poetically put it. Rick doesn't know for sure, but he's fairly certain murder confessions aren't typically part of the fuckbuddy experience.

Negan doesn't have that dead-inside, shattered look in his eyes, so he's probably not saying all this because he's got nothing left and wants Rick to lock him away. It's almost as if he...

Holy hell. Does Negan actually trust Rick?

"You see, Rick," Negan says, "whatever you do, no matter fucking what, you do not fuck with my family."

"You didn't get caught... How?" Rick wonders.

"I was careful. The neighborhood where Dwight lived was rife with drug deals gone bad and a whole bunch of other violent shit. I burned the bat in the fireplace when I got home. It was cold out, so no one would have thought twice about smoke coming from the chimney. And sure, the cops brought me in for questioning, but they couldn't prove I did it. Dwight never reported that I'd threatened him. How could he without admitting he'd been stalking my wife? And the only person who heard the threat was Lucille, and like hell she was gonna say a word. Without a murder weapon or any physical evidence tying me to the crime, they had to let me go."

Negan looks wistful now, like he's getting to the worst of it. "Everything went downhill after that. Lucille got sick, and we found out too little too fucking late. So I had to watch her die. But I think she started looking at me differently after Dwight. Like she couldn't handle what I did. I think about that a lot. Maybe her immune system was another victim of that horrible night. So after Lucille died, it didn't take a lot of convincing for the community to believe I had something to do with it."

That is not where Rick saw this going. At all.

"But she had cancer," Rick protests, trying to wrap his head around it.

"Doesn't mean I couldn't have helped her along," Negan says with disgust. "Poisoned her coffee a little bit each morning. Something like that. It was pretty much a consensus that I'd already killed one person, so their opinion of me wasn't very high. They all thought the cancer was somehow connected to what I did to Dwight. Lucille pushed away everyone who talked shit about me, so by the time she died they had no loyalties to her anymore."

Negan is quiet now, looking a little stunned, like he hadn't meant to blurt all of that out. Like he's just now realizing he confessed to murder in front of a sheriff. He glances down between them, and, oh, Rick sees the problem now. At some point in their conversation, Rick reached out and placed a hand over Negan's own. Their fingers are entwined in a way that's a little too intimate for what they are. Or maybe not. Maybe they've become something else now.

"Okay, your turn," Rick says, hoping to distract Negan from the possibly-inappropriate touching. "Ask me somethin'." He can't move his hand away, doesn't even want to try.

Negan just stares at him, that intense gaze that feels like Rick's being eye-fucked, and asks, "Are we still friends?"

Then they're staring at each other's mouths and thinking the same thoughts, and Negan is doing that thing where he licks his lips while looking at Rick like he wants to eat him (which Rick would be completely okay with, he thinks with a flush of heat), so Rick just goes for it, and Negan doesn't stop him, just crushes Rick closer and kisses him as though the last reserves of the world's air are in Rick's mouth.

Negan kisses like he fucks, which is to say Rick feels wide open and used and loving it. The sandpaper scrape of beard against his skin makes Rick shiver. He curls a hand around the collar of Negan's jacket and pulls him closer, until there's barely any space between them anymore, and Negan makes a noise into Rick's mouth, something low and rumbly that makes every part of Rick stir. Then Negan's hands are tight in Rick's hair as he nips at the corner of Rick's mouth and his lower lip.

Afterwards they're breathing hard and looking at each other, and Rick feels more shaken up now than he's ever felt even after they've fucked. Negan smirks, his lips flushed with arousal. "Well, well, well..."

"I'm done pretending I don't care about you," Rick says as he catches his breath. Negan went out on a limb today, so Rick thinks the least he can do is return the favor. "We're whatever you wanna be."

"You're a hell of a guy, Rick Grimes. But you're also a hell of a sap." Negan gazes at Rick with adoration and captures his mouth.

Rick can't remember the last time he had a hardcore makeout session, but here he is gasping around kisses and clutching at Negan's jacket and trying to climb through him. Negan gets him off the couch and guides him to the bedroom, shedding his leather jacket over the handrail as they fumble upstairs, unwilling to let their mouths be their own again. Negan's got his hand down the front of Rick's jeans by the time they reach the bedroom door, and Rick groans, desperate to be touched. He manages to shut the door behind them before Negan gets him on the bed.

Negan's mouth is ravenous, nipping and biting and oh fuck Rick's going to have hard-to-explain marks tomorrow, but right now he doesn't give a fraction of a shit, because Negan's licking the hollow of his throat and palming him through his boxers, and Rick feels glorious and alive. Negan unbuttons Rick's shirt—with one hand, dude's got skills—and drops kisses down his chest, giving his nipples teasing bites before following the line of Rick's body, his mouth moving down, down, down, tongue swirling around his navel, then there's cool air against Rick's thighs, and _what the fuck_ , Rick thinks, which he might actually say out loud as Negan swallows him down.

Rick squirms under the slick heat of Negan's mouth, fingers tugging at his hair as he sucks and slurps. Negan's tongue plays with the vein on the underside of Rick's cock, and Rick can't help the way his hips lift and push. The scrape of his beard against Rick's thighs is fucking ridiculous, but Rick tries to stay very quiet, and he can feel Negan's sly grin around his dick, like the tiny whimpers squeaking out of Rick's throat turn him on.

Negan hums around him—fucking goddamn teasing asshole—and Rick's whole body resonates like a tuning fork, and he feels the pull low in his gut, getting tighter and tighter, and he gasps a warning that falls apart halfway out of his mouth as he comes in a long stretch of sensation. It's euphoric and exhausting and all-consuming, and Rick thinks if he could just live suspended in this moment for a while he might be able to get his shit together for once.

Rick's trembling when it's over, shaking like he's washed up on shore. Negan licks him clean before biting kisses into Rick's inner thighs. "You're pretty easy to satisfy, aren't you?" he gloats against Rick's quivering skin.

Rick just tries to catch his breath and says, "Oh my God..."

Negan huffs a snort of laughter. "Been a while?"

Rick thinks the answer to that one is pretty obvious. He tugs at Negan's hair, gently, trying to coax him up. "C'mere," Rick finally says, and Negan obeys, kissing his way up Rick's thigh, his hip bone, his stomach, his chest, before their mouths meet again. Rick grabs the hem of Negan's t-shirt, pulls it over his head, and in the brief moment they break apart, he drinks in the sight of Negan's tattoos and chest and shoulders, this glorious body he gets to touch and put his mouth on.

"You make me feel dirty," Rick breathes out.

"Not the first time I've heard that," Negan says before claiming Rick's mouth again.

Rick's making a valiant effort to take off Negan's jeans, but he settles for just opening them up enough to get a hand around his cock. Negan hums into Rick's mouth and pushes into his touch. Rick has never done this before, at least not to another dude or from this angle, but he tries his best, gauging what Negan likes by the noises he makes and how insistently his hips twist and rock. He rubs his thumb over the slick head of Negan's cock, squeezes the shaft in his hand, and Negan purrs, "Fuck, you know what Daddy likes, cowboy," and Rick just _stops_. Immediately. He pulls his hand away like Negan's dick has turned into a poisonous cobra.

"We have, what, a ten-year age difference?" Rick says in disbelief. "Cut that shit out."

"Awful dangerous for you to be givin' me orders, Rick."

"Well..." Rick grabs him again, giving Negan a soft squeeze to let him know he means business. "I've got your cock in my hand, so I'm callin' the shots."

"Okay, I'm a little turned on right now," Negan says, almost begrudging.

"A little?" Rick grins, squeezing again, and Negan shudders, his mouth seeking Rick's own, and Rick lets him find it, loving the taste and texture of him. Rick works Negan in his hand, pumping and stroking and sliding, then Negan's biting Rick's lower lip as he comes over his stomach, and it's one of Rick's top five hottest things to ever happen to him. He watches, entranced, as Negan shakes and tenses through the aftershocks, watches his hips buck into Rick's fist.

Negan groans a throaty noise and settles—collapses, really—onto Rick, his beard scratching the top of Rick's shoulder. "If I knew tellin' you my sob story would get me laid, I would've told you sooner."

"You think this is pity?" Rick says, skimming a hand along the line of Negan's back.

"Whatever it is, you're damn good at it. Handjobs aren't usually my thing, but, Rick, you've got the Midas touch."

Rick tightens his fingers against Negan's spine, just a slight dig of nails. If Negan honestly thinks Rick kissed him out of pity, he's the stupidest person alive. "I don't go to bed with someone 'cause I _feel sorry_ for them." Rick pushes at Negan's shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes and see the unwavering truth there. "Is that why you did it? 'Cause if you did, you better tell me before—" He stops himself, but he's already said too much.

Negan is a shark smelling blood in the water, and he pounces on that slip of the tongue. "Before what, Rick? Before you fall in love with me? 'Cause I think maybe you already have." He grins like this is amusing, and Rick withers under his intense gaze, feeling small and stupid.

But Rick doesn't argue or protest or try to justify himself. He keeps eye contact with Negan, as though daring him to talk shit.

Negan chuckles and shakes his head. "It's on me. I'm just too goddamn charming for my own good." He lowers his mouth to Rick's own, and it's surprisingly tender, and Rick thinks this is as close as Negan's going to get to an admission of feelings. Fine. Rick will take it. It's a start.

Rick pushes his fingers into Negan's hair, clutching tightly as his heart pounds in his chest, and the possibilities play in his head like a movie montage. There's him and Negan on the couch, watching TV and drinking beers. There's Negan teaching Carl how to drive—in the Impala, no less. There's Rick cooking dinner and Negan standing by, critiquing his technique like a fouler-mouthed Gordon Ramsay. There's Negan reading to Judith, which she'd probably enjoy more than Rick's efforts, because Negan is theatrical and cartoonish enough already.

Jeez.

Rick knows he's embarrassingly Pollyanna. That was one of the things Lori loved about him, that he was eager to settle down and start a family while most men his age were more interested in playing the field. But Negan... Rick can't get a good read on what he's looking for in their arrangement. Is it still only about sex, or have they developed something greater?

Well, Negan's never kissed him before. Or sucked his cock. So there's that.

That's... different.

Once their mouths are red and raw and numb, Negan rolls off of Rick and onto the empty space beside him. "Whoo," Negan exhales. "You got anything to eat? I'm starving."

"Do you just come here for the free food?"

"Don't discount your phenomenal pillow-talk, Rick. And need I remind you you're a fantastic lay."

"I'm the whole package," Rick says with a sardonic smirk.

Negan opens his mouth, closes it. "Too easy," he says, grinning. He slides out of bed and pads across the room. Rick stares, his mouth going dry at the teasing lines of Negan's body disappearing into his jeans. There's a tattoo of a crown on his right shoulderblade that Rick wants to bite, but Negan disappears into the bathroom before Rick can give that too much thought.

Later, once they've freshened up and slipped back into their clothes, they go downstairs. Negan makes himself at home, raiding the fridge and pulling out the leftover pizza. He's still searching for something when Rick makes it into the kitchen. "Where the hell do you keep the booze?" Negan grumbles, pushing aside soda cans and jugs of orange juice.

"I've been tryin' to cut back," Rick says. "Carl noticed how much I drank."

Negan makes a scoffing sound and settles on a Coke. "So you're just gonna soldier through those nightmares, huh?" He moves for the staircase, rifles through the pockets of his leather jacket for his flask.

Rick nods. "It happened, I have to deal with it. I can't get lost in a bottle. I have kids."

Negan heads back to the kitchen, snaps open the soda can. He takes a long drink before spiking the rest with the alcohol in the flask.

"And I don't get the nightmares as much now," Rick confesses. He thinks that might be tied to Negan's presence in his life. Since he has something new and invigorating to dwell on, he's not often falling into the depressive spiral of reliving trauma over and over.

"Don't let me stop you on your road to recovery." Negan takes another drink and carries his hoard of delicious food to the couch. He opens the plastic container holding the pizza. "I admire your attempt at getting your shit together." Then, because Negan can't say anything real without couching it between sarcasm or banalities: "Holy shit, banana peppers! Which one of you is the real goddamn MVP of pizza toppings?"

Rick laughs to himself. "That would be me," he says, joining Negan on the couch. It's almost a perfect recreation of how they'd been thirty minutes ago, but with food and a lot less pent-up emotions. Everything's flowing freely now, like they're allowed to be what they are with no pretensions.

"A man after my own heart," Negan says with his mouth full.

Rick feels something tighten in his stomach. He glances at the reflection of them in the dark TV screen. "You wanna watch a movie?"

"Slow your fuckin' roll, Rick. I see your kid's got an Xbox." Negan picks up one of the controllers and switches on the console.

In an effort to prevent Carl from staying up all night playing video games, Lori insisted he could only have an Xbox if it was kept downstairs. Then Carl got a laptop one Christmas, and any hopes of him not staring at a screen all night were dashed. None of them have moved the console into Carl's room, as though doing so would eradicate another shred of Lori from the house.

"Let's see if he's got good taste." Negan scrolls through Carl's game library: Assassin's Creed, Call of Duty: Black Ops, Grand Theft Auto V, Halo 3, The Evil Within, Resident Evil 4. "Damn, you got a future serial killer on your hands!" Negan laughs, to Rick's dismay. He gets a look at Rick's expression and laughs harder. "Aw, lighten up, Rick. That was a joke. They're just games." He finally finds one that piques his interest: Left 4 Dead 2. "Here we go! Somethin' we can both enjoy. Grab a controller and back me up."

Rick just sort of gapes at him.

"I'm not asking," Negan says with a sly smirk.

So Rick obeys.

It turns out Negan's way better than Rick at games made after the Reagan administration, which Negan tactfully points out. "Jesus, how are you this terrible at shooting? It's part of your _job_!"

Rick frowns as Negan's avatar—of course he would pick the female character—heals him. "Real guns don't require two joysticks to aim."

"Yeah, go ahead and blame the controller, shitlord." Negan effortlessly mows down a line of zombies and picks up some items. Meanwhile, Rick's still figuring out which button switches weapons.

"You should've known I wouldn't be any good," Rick protests, and he's about to say more when Negan cuts him off.

"I beg to fucking differ. You beat my Galaga score. And you've got a teenager. I assumed at some point you might have played a video game in your life."

Rick, in a wild spray of bullets, manages to score some kills, though not without shooting two of the computer-controlled teammates, whose avatars reprimand him for the friendly fire. "Well, y'know what they say about people who assume."

"You are so fuckin' clever, Rick," Negan says in a voice that conveys he is anything but. "God, I love your sparkling repartee." He takes a moment to heal, steals another bite of pizza in the short seconds of downtime.

"Yeah, that's why you stick around. You raid my fridge and make yourself at home 'cause you can't get enough of me," Rick teases.

"If you're trying to get me to say I like you, don't hold your breath."

But Rick thinks Negan has already said it, unspoken but loud and clear through their tender moments upstairs, this evening's makeout session and admissions of guilt, the way Negan has, from the start, treated Rick like more than just a masturbatory tissue to be discarded once he's had his fun.

They play through three more campaigns, all while Negan complains about Rick's poor aim and tendency to fumble his way into surprise attacks by special infected. Negan eats most of the pizza, and Rick pops in on Judith twice throughout the evening to make sure she's okay. Each time he creeps back down the stairs, he checks his phone for a text from Carl. Nothing yet. He thinks about sending something like 'you okay?' but if Carl's still at the party, odds are he's probably not thinking about his phone. And if something horrible has happened, well, a text wouldn't do much good in that case either.

It's only ten thirty. Rick gave Carl a curfew of midnight, so there's still time left before Rick can rightfully jump into panic mode.

Which is why Rick's completely horrified when someone's unlocking the door around ten forty-five. Instinctively, he reaches for his sidearm, which of course he doesn't fucking have now.

Negan catches a glimpse Rick's fearful expression. "Calm your tits, cowboy. Burglars don't tend to use keys," he says like Rick is the biggest idiot in the world.

So who has a key? Rick runs through the possibilities in his mind: Carol, Michonne, Carl, himself, Lori...

The door opens, and Carl's standing there looking shell-shocked at the sight of his dad and his baseball coach sitting on the couch together playing his Xbox like this is something they do every night.

"What the hell?" Carl says, his voice halfway between demanding and terrified of what the answer to this situation might be.

"Hey, kid," Negan greets him, pausing the game and turning to face Carl. "Your dad sucks at co-op. Haven't you taught him anything?"

Carl's still frozen in the doorway with his mouth hanging open.

"Close the door. That's how we get ants."

Carl manages to shut the door behind him, though he's looking around like he might have entered an alternate dimension where this is totally normal. "Dad? Why is Negan here?" Carl approaches the couch with caution.

Rick's scrambling for an answer that isn't 'I've been secretly dating your coach for the last couple weeks.' He is trying, and he is failing.

"What are you doing in our house?" Carl asks Negan, since Rick is no longer capable of making words.

Negan laughs. "Who the fuck raised you? You're so rude." He turns his head to Rick, who's staring at Carl like he's an oncoming train and Rick is a deer and they're headed for a bloody collison. "You let him talk like that to your guests?"

"Carl..." Rick manages to say. "You were supposed to call me." A horrifying realization rises up in Rick's mind: either Carl walked home at night, or he hitched a ride with someone of potentially questionable repute.

"I knew you'd be—" Carl stops, overtaken by another train of thought that knocks him askew. "Oh my God, tell me it's not Negan! The person you've been texting? Who you've been sneaking out at night to see?"

Carl's horrified eyes grow even wider, like there's a giant spider crawling on Rick's face that he's oblivious to. "What are those?" Carl whimpers, pointing at him, and it takes Rick a second to realize what Carl is seeing, and he remembers the sinful scrape and burn of Negan's beard against his throat, the biting kisses at his neck, and there's no backpedaling out of this one.

Rick is fucked.

Negan gives Rick a look that says, 'he's your kid, this one's all yours.'

Rick swallows. His mouth is drier than the Sahara.

Carl throws his hands over his face in despair. "This is some kind of trick, isn't it? You guys came up with some weird, twisted joke to screw with me so I wouldn't break the rules, right?"

"Rules are important," Negan chimes in.

"Please don't help me," Rick mutters.

"You guys can't really be together," Carl protests. "Just tell me it's a joke and get to my punishment."

Negan throws an arm over the back of the couch, draping it over Rick's tense shoulders. "Kid, I think this _is_ your punishment."

Carl looks like he wants to die and vomit, possibly at the same time.

"But this would've been a damn fine teaching tool," Negan says. "If you had texted your daddy to come get you, he would'a sent me home, and you would'a been none the fuckin' wiser. Ignorance is bliss."

Negan really needs to stop saying the word 'daddy' to human beings over the age of eight years old.

Rick sighs. "This isn't how I wanted you to find out."

"Oh God..."

Rick wants to stop there, because that implies more than enough, but he's going to get through this awkward shit-blizzard of a conversation. He will, goddamn it. "But Negan and I are... seeing each other. In a romantic sort of way."

"That involves kissing," Negan adds.

"Not helping!"

"On each other's mouths."

"Will you stop?"

"And doin' it!" Negan says with a little fist-pump and totally unnecessary hip thrust.

Rick gives up on the concept of Negan not being a complete embarrassment.

Carl throws his hands into the air. "Well, thank you both for ruining my life!" he says, storming up to his room. He has enough sense, however, not to slam his bedroom door. Still looking out for Judith.

Rick sighs, dropping his head back against the couch. That could have gone better.

"Great parenting, Rick," Negan elbows him in the ribs. "Do you always let him walk all over you like that?"

"It's a lot for him to get used to." _It's complicated_ doesn't begin to cover it.

"Should I skedaddle?" Negan says.

Rick tries not to laugh. "What did I say about talkin' like you're from the South?" Negan's only been here about a year; it's unlikely this slang has seamlessly integrated into his vocabulary.

"Maybe I just wanna speak your language." Negan lifts his eyebrows with a lazy grin, his head tilted towards Rick, and Rick can't stop himself from stealing a kiss, because that's something they can do now and he's going to take full advantage of it.

Negan's still smirking when they separate, but it's softer this time.

"I don't want you to go," Rick says, "but I do."

"I get it." Negan slides a hand over Rick's thigh as he gets up from the couch. He grabs his jacket and heads for the door. "Not gonna walk me out?"

Rick shrugs. "You already act like you live here. Why should this be any different?"

Negan huffs a laugh. "Good night, Rick." He shuts the door behind him as he leaves, and Rick sits there wondering how he's going to untangle his way out of this one.


	10. Chapter 10

Carl isn't big on conversation before school, so it doesn't strike Rick as odd that he's not talking the next morning. But there's a pointed teenage bitterness to his silence now, which Rick is also accustomed to. So maybe not that much will change if Rick pursues this relationship with Negan. At least Judith isn't being cranky and sullen about it.

Halfway through breakfast, there's a knock at the door. Rick gets up to answer it and is greeted with Carol's cheery face on the other side.

"Rick," she says with a mischievous smile, "who's the handsome gentleman with the loud car you had over last night?"

Oh, Carol. Negan is anything but a gentleman. "He's just a friend."

"Cut the crap," Carol says, still wearing that perky smile. "You had a date."

"Shouldn't you be too busy with Morgan to spy on me?"

"He was on your doorstep. Plain sight."

Rick is quickly regretting this conversation.

"Morgan said he saw you two talking at the diner a couple weeks ago. Said you seemed pretty friendly."

"'Cause we're friends," Rick says, stressing the word.

"Oh really? Since when do friends give you hickeys?" Carol points to the red spots that have bloomed on Rick's neck.

Rick exhales angrily and covers them with his palm. "They're not hickeys. They're... bites." Jesus, that sounds even worse. "From bedbugs. We have an infestation."

Carol's not buying it. She lifts an eyebrow at Rick. Rick scowls. "Look, I'm not judging. I think it's wonderful you're seeing someone. You look better. You have a glow."

Rick rubs his eyes. It's too early for this. "Carol..." He's trying to think of a polite way to say 'please leave me alone.'

"I know. Baby steps. But Judith will tell me later." Carol raises her voice, peering over Rick's shoulder at Judith. "Right, Judy?"

Judith looks up from her Cheerios and waves at Carol. "Hi, Aunt Carol!"

Carol grins. "She will." With that, Carol departs.

Rick closes the door and sighs.

"I can't believe Carol's on your side," Carl whines. "Why can't she see how twisted and wrong this is?"

"Wrong? Why? 'Cause Negan and I are both men?" Rick wonders, poking at the beehive of Carl's anger.

Carl gives Rick a bewildered look. "No, because he's Negan! He's gross and terrible and a total dick. How do you not see that?"

"Oh, I see it," Rick says as he sits at the table. "But I see somethin' else, too."

"Please don't try to convince me he has a great personality."

"He's your coach. I get it. It's hard to see teachers as actual people with lives outside of school."

Carl does not appear convinced.

"Negan lost his wife too," Rick says. He feels a little weird revealing that without permission, but it might help Carl comprehend the connection between them. "So he understands. He doesn't treat me like I'm broken."

"He's the total opposite of everything Mom was."

Rick nods, conceding. "In a lot of ways, yeah. But I think he wants the same things I do."

"What, to make me miserable?"

Rick's fighting a losing battle here. Carl will need time to adjust and realize this arrangement—if Negan isn't just screwing with Rick—won't be so bad. But as of this moment, not even the most perfectly crafted argument could sway Carl from being stubbornly opposed to a Rick-Negan partnership.

Rick puts his hands up in surrender. "Alright, you're entitled to your opinion." Even if it's a stupid-ass opinion.

* * *

Most days at the King County Sheriff's Department are boring as hell. Though Rick isn't sure he'd prefer the alternative. It's nice not worrying about being shot at every day. The gruesome intensity of the Eastman debacle is pretty much an outlier in the hemisphere of Rick's daily life as the sheriff. Mostly the job's just permits and traffic tickets.

On Monday afternoon, Rick's staring absently at the contents of the snack machine, trying to decide if he's in a sweet or salty mood, when Shane materializes beside him and leans against the side of the machine like he's Sinatra against a lamppost.

Rick makes a totally manly startled noise. "Jesus, we need to put a bell on you."

"Wouldn't make a difference," Shane gloats. "I'm stealthy as fuck. Speaking of, you ever get some with that Lucifer chick?"

It's at this moment Rick realizes his life post-Lori is a wobbly Jenga puzzle of bad decisions and misguided life choices, and anything he says will send the tower toppling down.

"Yeah, actually, I did," Rick says. "A couple times."

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Shane claps Rick on the shoulder with his free hand. "So you guys a thing now?" Of course Shane knows how vanilla Rick is, so Rick's going to have to lie. At least a little bit.

"Just a physical thing. It's not serious."

The words have a sour taste in Rick's mouth. He doesn't even know if that was true when he and Negan agreed upon it. And it's definitely not true now. They're way past the meaningless sex stage.

Shane's eyes widen. "Way to go, Rick! I didn't think you had it in you!"

Shane really doesn't want to know what Rick's had inside of him the last couple weeks.

"I've decided to try new things," Rick says, holding back a snicker.

"Well, whatever you're doin', keep it up, 'cause it's workin' for you."

"Really?" Rick's brow knits in skepticism. "Carol said I had a glow."

Shane laughs. "That's one way to put it."

Rick needs to steer this conversation away from his own dating life, so he turns the focus onto Shane's instead. Hey, every man for himself. "How are you doin'? Anybody special in your life?"

"You know my style," Shane says, sort of dismissively, almost like he's embarrassed about his inability to maintain a relationship with the opposite sex that lasts longer than the average pregnancy.

Rick does, of course, know Shane's style: one-night stands and friends with benefits. A life of seemingly permanent bachelorhood.

"Yeah, I do," Rick says with a sigh. He tried Shane's style and ended up with a boyfriend. Funny how things work. "Whatever makes you happy."

"Happy as a clam." There's a brief flicker of emotion on Shane's face that betrays his words, and Rick wants to dig deeper, but he knows Shane will push him away with surface-level jokes and bravado, because this isn't something men talk about with each other.

And right on cue, Shane thumps the side of the vending machine with his fist and says, "Get those biscuits and gravy chips. They're the shit," before walking away.

* * *

Negan shows up unannounced for dinner that evening. He grins when Rick opens the door, giving him a once-over that makes Rick feel stripped and bare.

"Well, look at _you_ ," Negan says, doing just that. "You know that uniform is just about the sexiest damn thing, don't you?" He tugs at Rick's beltloops, pulling him closer.

"S'why I use it to strip at bachelorette parties," Rick murmurs at Negan's ear.

Negan chuckles a dark, rumbly laugh. "Oh, don't you fuckin' tease me." His scruff brushes against Rick's cheek as he winds an arm around Rick's waist.

From the kitchen table, Carl groans a long, exasperated noise. "We're trying to _eat_!"

Negan looks up at Carl with a wide, shit-eating grin. "You are adorable, but, kid, your manners leave a whole lot to be desired."

Rick sighs; he's been doing a lot of that lately. "Carl, try to be civil, okay?"

Carl grumbles begrudgingly as Negan and Rick approach the dinner table. "I see you enough at school," he says. "Why do you have to come to our house and ruin everything?"

"Carl," Rick says, firmer now. He takes his seat and hopes tonight doesn't end in awkward, messy disaster.

"I tried! But he makes it so hard!"

"I make your dad pretty hard too," Negan says as he sits in the empty chair—Lori's chair.

Rick wonders if there's a way to politely die at the table.

"One of you has to behave yourselves," Rick says, ignoring how hot is face is getting.

Judith seems to like Negan, because she smiles at him and says, "Uncle Negan!"

Carl gasps in horror like he's just witnessed someone kicking a puppy.

Negan smiles at her. "You remember me? Well, I don't blame you. I make quite an impression." He looks to Rick. "Rick, I think your little girl likes me. She must take after her daddy."

From the noises Carl's making, either he has indigestion or he's going to leap across the table and stab Negan with his fork. "She's too young to know you're a human turdburger."

"Carl," Rick sighs. The kid didn't make this much of a fuss over dinner when he was Judith's age.

Negan laughs, unaffected by Carl's vitriol. "I think I see what's goin' on," he says, leaning forward. "You think if you get under my skin I'll kick you off the team, huh? But I'm not gonna do that, 'cause that's exactly what you want me to do."

"Then I'll just quit."

"Now you don't really mean that. 'Cause if I know you, and I think I do, you hate Ron Anderson more than you hate me. And the only way you can really hurt his pride is to show him up on the mound. And your mama didn't raise a quitter, did she?"

Carl's mouth scrunches up in frustration, like he knows he doesn't have a good argument for that but also doesn't want to let Negan get the last word. "You don't get to talk about her like you knew her," Carl snaps, his voice low and icy. "You can sit in her chair and act like you're part of our family, but you're not."

"Carl," Rick says with an edge of _shut the fuck up_.

Carl keeps going, rising from his seat. "Whatever Dad's getting out of being with you, he'll get over it. He doesn't love you."

"Carl!"

"I'm going!" Carl takes his plate and stomps up the stairs like they've personally offended him. He slams the door when he gets into his bedroom.

"Not even a 'you're not my real dad'?" Negan shakes his head in disappointment. "Kids these days."

Rick sighs again, sinking into his chair. "I'm sorry he's like this."

"He's a teenager. On his best days his life is a shit-storm." Negan blinks as though realizing something, looks at Judith. "Damn, I'm gonna have to clean up my language around you, huh?"

Judith giggles.

Negan smiles, soft and serene, before glancing up at Rick. "Do you want me to go?"

Rick's oddly endeared that Negan offered. "No, it's probably best if you stay. I don't want Carl thinking he can get whatever he wants by acting out. But... maybe he's right, and this is a bad idea."

"If I may speak in my own interest, Carl would probably hate whoever you brought home. At least the little one"—Negan points his thumb at Judith—"is a clean slate."

Rick considers that. A female companion would likely earn scorn from Carl for not being enough like Lori. Or for being too much like Lori. For being too young or too old for Rick. For dressing like a prostitute or like a PTA mom. The deck would be stacked against her before she ever set foot in the Grimes' house.

So maybe the problem does indeed lie with Carl.

"If you want me gone," Negan says, "I'm gone."

Rick shakes his head. "It's up to you."

"Not my house, cowboy."

Rick blushes involuntarily at the nickname. He turns his attention to Judith. "What do you think, Judy? You want Uncle Negan to stay for dinner?"

Judith looks at Negan, presses her hand to her mouth like she's seriously considering the pros and cons of this decision. "Yeah! Stay!" she chirps.

"Smart kid," Negan says.

So he stays.

After dinner, Rick goes upstairs to check on Carl. He knocks twice, earning a grouchy teenage, "What?" before Carl opens the door.

"It's your turn to clean up the kitchen," Rick says.

Carl shoots a suspicious glance toward the stairs. "Is he gone?"

"No."

"So I'm being punished?"

"Absolutely. You don't get to behave like that, no matter how much you don't like somebody."

Carl scowls.

"You're gettin' off easy," Rick says. "I could make you apologize to him." He could, but Rick knows Carl wouldn't mean it.

Carl looks horrified by this possibility. He grabs his empty plate and heads downstairs, avoiding eye-contact with Negan, who's sitting on the couch with Judith on his knee. Carl does, however, make a growly sound in his throat as he passes by.

Negan chuckles. "Oh, it's gonna be fun making your brother like me," he says cheerily to Judith, who laughs and gives him a wide smile.

Rick joins Negan on the couch. "Go easy on him," he murmurs. "He's got dish duty."

Negan smirks, looking around the living room. His gaze settles on the framed photograph on the wall of Rick, Carl, and Lori. "That your wife?" he asks, tipping his chin in the direction of the picture.

Rick nods. He isn't sure how to feel about both Negan and Lori coexisting in his heart, one acknowledging the existence of the other. It feels riddled with danger, like going back in time to visit your past self.

"Not bad, Rick. Not bad at all," Negan says, appraising.

From behind them, Carl starts angrily clanging dishes together in the sink over the gush of the faucet.

Negan rifles through his jacket pockets for his phone. He clicks it on, toggles through a few screens. "This is Lucille." He hands Rick the phone, and Rick's a little stunned by the beautiful woman onscreen.

For starters, Lucille looks to be in her mid-to-late twenties. Way younger than Rick was expecting, especially considering Negan's age. Her brown eyes are lined in a way that makes them pop yet also seem sultry and smoky. Her dark hair—Rick can't tell if it's black or brown—is cut in a short bob that hangs just past her chin. She smiles like she knows your deepest secrets and finds them infinitely amusing.

"Wow," Rick hears himself say.

"She didn't like to smile for pictures, so I had to be sneaky. Or make her laugh. Which wasn't hard." Negan shows Rick a few more photos before pocketing his phone, like he too feels the strange sensation that comes with crossing the streams of your past and present lives.

"Lori wasn't a big fan of pictures either," Rick says. "Except family portraits. God, she loved those."

Negan finds the numerous pictures on the walls. "You don't say."

Rick nudges him with a playful elbow. He settles deeper into the couch, finds himself sort of leaning against Negan. "She used to collect those fancy dinner plates, y'know, that you're not s'posed to eat off of. She'd go to garage sales and estate sales and find all sorts of 'em. But just plates. She didn't collect anything else or hoard shoes. Nothin' like that. Which was the weird part, 'cause I couldn't understand why she collected this one thing with no practical use."

"She ever tell you why?"

"'I just think they're neat.'" Rick shrugs, still completely baffled. The memory makes him chuckle.

Carl shuts off the kitchen faucet, shuts the dishwasher door. "Don't tell him about her."

God damn it, Carl.

It's Rick's fault for expecting his son to be civil here.

Carl leaves the kitchen and approaches the couch, glaring at Rick. "He doesn't get to know," he says, keeping his anger in check for Judith's sake; she can soak up the emotions in a room like a sponge. "I can't believe you're letting him hold her."

"She likes me," Negan says, like he can't understand why Carl might have a problem with this. "And so does your dad. So, kid, I think you're outvoted."

Carl rolls his eyes and turns back to Rick. "So you're just gonna invite him over whenever?"

"He invited himself," Rick says, because he thinks that ought to be acknowledged.

Carl scoffs and moves for the stairs. "I'm getting a job."

"You're fifteen," Rick reminds him. "And you can't drive."

"I can mow lawns," Carl says before shutting himself in his room.

Rick sighs, rubs his face with his hands and drops his head back against the couch. "God, Lori, if you could see your son now..."

"She'd be laughing her ass off," Negan says.

"Yeah, probably."

It doesn't take long for Judith to drift off, so Rick gently extricates her from Negan's arms and carries her upstairs. He gets her changed into pajamas—a much easier task when she's half-asleep—and tucks her into bed. He reads to her until she's fast asleep.

Downstairs, Negan is still on the couch, looking at something on his phone. Rick smiles and rejoins him. "You got a side piece I don't know about?"

Negan smirks and pockets the phone. "Nah, Rick, you're about all I can handle. You realize I've been here about two hours and we still haven't screwed?"

Never change, Negan.

"No reason we can't." Rick tugs at the front of Negan's jacket, bringing his mouth in for a kiss. It's rough and bristly and sweet, and Rick wants to drown in it. He climbs into Negan's lap, knees on either side of his hips, and Negan rumbles a satisfied noise as his hands pluck open the buttons of Rick's shirt.

"Oh, tell me I get to fuck you in this uniform," Negan says, one hand traveling up Rick's abdomen while the other handles the buttons. Rick shivers at his touch, at the way Negan rakes his fingernails down his chest.

"You can do whatever you want," Rick huffs out, grinding his hips into Negan's own. Negan works open Rick's belt and jeans, shoving them over his hips and down his thighs. He palms Rick's erection through his shorts, and Rick twists and squirms against his hand. He's unbearably hard, and he's tempted to reach down and jerk himself off, but it's better when Negan does it.

"Mmm, look at you," Negan purrs, still teasing Rick through the thin fabric. "You just can't wait, huh?" He traces a finger along the swollen line of Rick's cock. Rick bites down on a groan and pushes into Negan's touch, but Negan pulls his hand away. "Ah, ah, ah, Rick, what's the magic word?"

"Please," Rick huffs out, desperate now. As though reading his mind, Negan takes hold of Rick's wrists so he can't touch himself.

"That's a good start. You're already on your knees, and I want you to beg for it."

"Negan..." His name in Rick's mouth is a dirty scrape of wrong and right at once, and Negan hears it too, because he squeezes Rick's wrists before sliding his hands up his forearms. "Fuck me..." Rick shifts, rising up a bit to settle against the bulge in Negan's jeans. "I need it."

Negan grins, rewarding him with a squeeze at his cock. "Oh, I can certainly see that." His other hand digs through his jacket pockets for a bottle of lube, which Rick is only momentarily surprised by. Of course Negan would come prepared for this. It's not like their relationship didn't start off with frantic boning.

"Since you're such a goddamn pro at handling cocks, why don't you do the honors?" Negan hands him the bottle, and he's already hard when Rick gets his fingers around him. Rick feels the low thump of his heartbeat, and all he can think about now is having that steady pulse of lust inside of him.

Negan makes some of the hottest fucking sounds Rick's ever heard when he's being touched and squeezed. Rick almost wants to just stroke him off right here, but Negan stops him when his cock is sufficiently slickened, grabbing Rick's hips and lifting him just enough to line himself up. Rick takes the slippery plunge like a champ, gasping a little as Negan fills him up.

Then they're moving together, Negan's fingers tight around Rick's hips, his mouth swallowing Rick's moans as Rick rises and falls and takes whatever Negan gives, and Jesus Christ, Rick realizes with heady exhilarated terror, they're fucking on his couch, and it's the dirtiest thing Rick's ever done, or at least in the top five. But pretty much every sexual encounter with Negan puts another notch in that belt.

Rick doesn't last very long, but neither does Negan. Rick gnarls his fingers in the back of Negan's jacket as he falls apart, smothering a groan against Negan's mouth. He'd feel embarrassed about his apparent lack of stamina, but then Negan's digging his fingers into Rick's skin and biting at his chin and filling him up hot and wet inside.

In a deep, dark place Rick won't admit to anyone, he loves when Negan comes in him, when they're finished and he's shaking and trying to remember how to breathe and slick trails of lube and jizz trickle down his thighs. Rick rests his forehead against Negan's shoulder as his heart thunders in his chest and his lungs feel shriveled like empty Capri-Suns. Negan rubs his hands over Rick's lower back, occasionally kneading his ass.

"Gold star performance as always," Negan sighs into Rick's neck, his hot breath making Rick shiver. "You're a natural."

Rick breathes in the familiar, comforting smell of him. "You should stay. Tonight, I mean." The idea of inviting someone into his bed as more than just a sexual partner should terrify him, because that's one more step further from Lori, tangible proof that the wound is healing. It scares him because it doesn't.

"Carl is gonna lose his shit," Negan says with a chuckle. "Or is that part of the fun?"

"You got a strange idea of fun." Rick lifts his head to Negan's mouth, kissing his impeccable lips, and arousal curls tightly in Rick's belly.

They head upstairs and take turns in the shower. Negan wears a t-shirt and shorts borrowed from Rick's wooden dresser, and Rick tries not to stare at the long lines of his body. It's not often he gets to see Negan in this partial state of undress; Negan's usually fully clothed or nude, with the inbetween stages lasting mere seconds. Tattoos on each arm peek out from underneath his sleeves, and Rick ponders the story behind them.

When they settle into bed, Rick's immediately pulled into Negan's arms, tucked against his chest, and, hello, Negan is hard again, his cock insistent and firm against the curve of Rick's ass. "Again?" Rick sputters, sort of jumping at the scratch of Negan's scruff against the back of his neck.

"Don't worry, Rick. I'm not gonna pound your ass unless you want it," Negan says, his voice sluggish with sleep. He pushes a hand underneath Rick's t-shirt, his warm palm skimming over his stomach.

"How considerate."

"I'm a goddamn gentleman. Don't you forget it."

Rick smiles to himself, listens to Negan's soft sighs as he settles in behind him.

With Lori, there was an exact moment where Rick noted he'd fallen in love with her. They were at an ice cream shop—one of their first dates—and Lori was eating a hot fudge sundae and going on about how frozen yogurt was imposter ice cream, and at some point in her speech she reached out with her spoon and snagged a bite of Rick's sundae, like it wasn't even a thing, and Rick was overwhelmed by her opinionated nature—Lori had opinions on pockets, for God's sake—and how freely she spoke her mind and how unburdened she was by anxieties, and Rick found himself thinking, "I love this woman."

But with Negan, all of these feelings sneaked up on him and caught him entirely by surprise. It's like Rick boarded a train bound for Atlanta, took a short nap, and woke up in Seattle with no idea how he got there, because he didn't think he'd been asleep that long. He thought that moment might have happened when Negan bared his soul about Lucille and Dwight, but Rick didn't need to realize anything because he already knew it. Any thoughts of, "God, I love him," would be met with a resounding, "Fucking duh, Rick."

But tonight, in his own bed with Negan wrapped around him and breathing soft and slow against the back of his neck, Rick is in love with him, and it doesn't scare him at all.


	11. Chapter 11

Rick wakes up to sandpaper kisses on the nape of his neck. He hums a happy, half-asleep noise in his throat, and Negan's mouth climbs up to his ear and murmurs, "Wake up."

This should be the moment Rick wakes up for real and instead of Negan beside him it's Lori, alive and well, and he would tell her about this crazy dream he had where she was dead and he fell for Carl's high-school baseball coach, and they would both laugh about it and nothing would hurt.

Instead, this is his life, and Rick finds he could get used to this, even the ache in his thighs that reminds him of what they did last night.

"C'mon," Negan whines, his hand venturing under Rick's t-shirt. "Wake the fuck up, Grimes."

Rick glances at the clock. It's still early, a little while before he'd rouse Carl for school.

"I'm up," Rick mumbles, covering Negan's hand with his own. He nudges his hips into Negan's own, feels the insistent bulge there. "And apparently so are you."

Negan chuckles a filthy sound into Rick's neck, pushing himself closer. "You wanna help me out, Rick? I'd do it myself, but I'm all thumbs."

Rick briefly imagines what Negan might look like jerking off, and a delicious shudder rolls through him. He shuts that train of thought down, because there's something he wants to try. And since Negan has done it for him, he might be expecting an attempt at reciprocation. Rick doesn't think Negan will mock him for his lack of experience here. Hell, it might even turn him on that he's Rick's first in this particular field.

 _Go for it, Grimes._

He turns over so he's facing Negan and gets his hand inside his shorts, fingers wrapped around Negan's cock. Negan purrs in contentment, his hips rocking into the slide of Rick's fist, and he's got no idea what Rick is planning until Rick climbs down his body and opens his mouth around the swollen, glistening head.

"Ah, fuck," Negan shakes out, his hands immediately tugging Rick's hair. Rick can't fit the whole thing in his mouth—at least not yet—so he focuses more on technique, little flicks of his tongue that draw Negan's hips off the mattress and make him actually fucking whimper. "Jesus, Rick..." Rick squeezes the base in his hand, his thumb rubbing over the thick vein on the underside. His mouth works slow and supple, swallowing him down maybe a third of the way, and he moans around him, pulling a long groan out of Negan.

"Fucking asshole," Negan grits out, his hips moving in careful waves, restraining himself. "Your goddamned mouth is just..." The rest of that sentence is subsumed in a gasp when Rick glides his tongue down the shaft, briefly teasing his balls before Negan starts fucking Rick's throat, all tenderness gone. "Shit, you gotta let me come in your mouth."

That's the hottest thing Rick's heard in a while—at least since the last time they had sex—and he's totally down for that. He hums in affirmation, sucking and stroking him until Negan breaks apart in a hot gush. Negan tastes like salt and cotton, and Rick finds that he likes it. Negan's hands grip Rick's hair, his mouth moaning profanity-laced encouragements until his orgasm subsides. Rick takes it all, swallowing every drop.

"Fucking hell," Negan sighs, his chest heaving with exertion. "Is there anything you _can't_ do?"

A hundred sassy and sappy answers spring to mind, but Rick doesn't voice any of them, just lets Negan slip out of his mouth and kisses his way up to Negan's lips. He wonders if Negan can taste himself there, the lingering bitterness on Rick's tongue.

"You sure you don't have a greasy truck-stop hooker past I don't know about?"

"Nope," Rick drawls. "I'm squeaky-clean."

"Bull. Shit." Negan nips at Rick's chin, hands sliding over his back. "You were fuckin' _worshiping_ my cock like it was an altar and you had some goddamn sins to confess."

"We're all sinners, no saints. Like you said."

Negan grins, like he's amazed Rick remembers anything that comes out of his mouth. "Well, why don't we do some hardcore sinning by scandalizing your son with how motherfucking cute we are together?"

Rick laughs, because he can't believe Negan actually called them cute. That word shouldn't even be in Negan's vocabulary except in reference to babies and animals. Or baby animals.

"Don't flaunt it," Rick says, and he knows that's a lost cause immediately after it leaves his mouth. "I think he's already scarred for life."

Carl is indeed scarred for life, and he's definitely more traumatized when they're all downstairs and he has to face the reality that Negan spent the night in Rick's bed. "I can't believe this," Carl says, shaking his head like he's resigned himself to this bizarro world where Rick and Negan are a couple. He glares across the breakfast table at Negan and snarls, "Why don't you just move in?"

Negan flashes Rick a devilish grin, which makes Rick blush. "Um, no, it's not—it's not like that," Rick tries to explain. "We didn't—He had a bit too much to drink, so I let him stay here."

Negan snickers. "Rick, you lie like a rug. And not even a nice rug, either. One of those old, raggedy ones that always bunches up and makes you trip."

"Dad, don't lie to me," Carl sighs. "I know what you did, and it's gross and I don't wanna think about it, but I can't _stop_ thinking about it 'cause he's right here at our table like that's normal."

"Does Uncle Negan live with us now?" Judith asks, looking to Carl for answers.

Carl's eyes go as wide as saucers.

"No, honey," Rick cuts in, sparing Carl from having to explain. "We just had a little sleepover."

"Oh." Judith seems disappointed that Negan isn't moving in, which makes Carl's skin lose a bit of color.

"Don't you worry, kiddo," Negan tells her. "I'll be around a lot. So it'll kinda be like I live here."

If Carl frowns any harder he'll swallow his chin.

"But it's time for me to get goin'," Negan says, graciously taking his leave, apparently deciding he's made things awkward enough for one morning. He pushes away from the table and stands up, grabs his jacket off the back of the chair. "Rick, drop me a line sometime." He bends at the waist, just enough to dip down and place a chaste kiss on Rick's mouth. Rick is momentarily stunned by the public display of affection, but he figures it's Negan's snide way of rubbing Carl's face in their relationship.

Judith gasps, her hands clasped over her mouth in stunned excitement, the same way she does when she watches Frozen and Elsa's love for Anna saves the day.

Carl makes a disgusted noise. "Ugh, I'm seriously gonna throw up."

"Carl, see you at practice," Negan says casually, sauntering away and out the door like he didn't just kiss Carl's father at the breakfast table.

"Daddy, are you and Uncle Negan in love?" Judith blurts out.

Can Rick have one moment where his children aren't embarrassing him?

"Uh, well," Rick sputters, "I do like him a lot." He's hesitant to say the truth out loud, as though giving voice to his feelings will somehow erode or negate his love for Lori.

"Oooh," Judith coos, dragging out the word.

Carl shakes his head as though he's lost all faith in the world. "Why couldn't you just get a motorcycle like every other mid-life crisis?"

If Negan were here he'd probably make a joke about Rick riding him like a Harley, but he's not here, so Rick just smiles slightly at the thought.

He misses Negan already.

* * *

By Wednesday, Carl has already started mowing lawns after school to get out of the house and not be forced to endure Rick and Negan's shenanigans. It's not like Rick can forbid him from earning some extra money (which Carl insists he's using to move out—sure, kid), and the whole experience will build character and job skills. And Carl being out of the house is a huge perk, since Rick and Negan won't have to deal with his constant moping and angry noises.

The three of them are sitting on the front porch, enjoying the refreshing breeze. Judith's sitting on Negan's knee; she's taken quite a liking to him—honestly, Rick would never have seen that coming.

"Lucille and I used to have a place like this," Negan says, his voice oddly somber. "Close-knit neighborhood, backyard barbeques, all that suburban garbage."

Rick picks up on the edge of melancholy in Negan's voice. "You miss it?"

"I wish it didn't end the way it did," Negan says with a shrug.

In a dark place he won't tell anyone about, Rick fears ending up like Negan, shut out and alone, ostracized by the community that once embraced him and elected him sheriff. Which he thinks might happen if the true nature of his relationship with Negan goes public. His rational side tells him he's worrying over nothing—Tara and Rosita are getting married with no fear of protest or homophobic bullshit, and Aaron and Eric have been married for three years now, and they are respected members of the community.

But it's different for Rick, he's certain, because people might feel "tricked" or betrayed that he wasn't upfront about his sexuality, which seems ridiculous, because Rick didn't know himself until recently. Or they'll make the cringeworthy assumption that Rick has lost his mind in the wake of Lori's death; since his only serious relationship was with a woman, they'll assume he couldn't possibly be attracted to men too.

Rick sighs, shaking off the anxious thoughts. He looks at Negan, at this roguish, secretly-soft man whose life has chewed him up and spit him out. "Well, the bright side is we get to start over. Life doesn't end just 'cause you lose somethin'. Sometimes I forget that."

Negan gives him a look, like that's too corny even for him, and Rick feels affectionately embarrassed for a moment before real chagrin slams into him like a wrecking ball, because Carol's cheery voice chirps, "Oh, Rick, is this your friend?" from next door.

Negan gives her a five-finger wave. "Howdy, ma'am. You must be Carol. Rick's told me a little about you."

Carol smiles and heads down the steps of her porch. "Did he? Well, he certainly hasn't told me anything about you." She joins them and offers Negan her hand. "It's nice to meet you..." She trails off, giving him space to supply his name.

"Negan." He grins, shakes her hand with the one that isn't holding Judith.

"Hi, Aunt Carol!" Judith pipes up. She wants in on this too.

Carol smiles at her. "Hi, sunshine!" She glances at Negan. "She seems to like you."

"Takes after her daddy," Negan says with a wicked smirk.

Carol gives Rick a knowing smile. "Is that so? Rick, I can't imagine why you wouldn't want me to meet this delightful gentleman."

Rick snickers at her insistence on the terminology. She ought to spend more than a minute with him and realize he's the furthest thing from a gentleman.

"Hear that, Rick? I'm _delightful_ ," Negan gloats.

"You two should come over for dinner sometime," Carol says. "Morgan and I will cook up something special for you. Negan, what do you like to eat?"

Rick's heart rate skyrockets, and he prays a silent prayer Negan will keep his answer G-rated.

"I love me some pie," Negan says, grinning at Rick like he fucking _knows_ exactly what's running through Rick's mind. "And every now and then I enjoy a nice chunk of meat."

Rick's face goes red, and it's suddenly eight-thousand degrees outside and he can't stop blushing. Is it really too much to ask that Negan be appropriate for at least one conversation?

Carol's smile says she absolutely hears the double entendres there. "I'm sure we can work with that. Rick, you let me know when you're available."

"Oh, uh, I appreciate the offer, but Carl and Negan don't really get along... It's mostly Carl." Forcing Negan and Carl to eat together is like strapping a block of C-4 to the table and waiting for detonation.

"Well, you know how teenagers are," Carol chuckles. "Sophia would rather eat in her room than spend time with us, so we could let them go upstairs while the adults get to know each other."

Shit, Rick was kind of trying to back out of this social obligation, but Carol just shut him right down. Offering up another excuse after Carol has provided a solution will seem flaky and rude.

"C'mon, Rick," Negan urges. "Never turn down free food and hospitality. It's un-Southern."

 _You're from Michigan_ , Rick wants to yell, because Negan has zero business lecturing him on any etiquette south of the Mason-Dixon Line. But he just nods and says, "Alright, that'll be nice. Thank you."

Carol smiles and pats them on the shoulders. "See, boys, that wasn't so hard." She runs a hand through Judith's blonde hair. "Bye, sweetie. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay!" Judith's pretty easy to please.

Carol turns away and heads down the steps. "Negan, it was a pleasure meeting you."

"Pleasure's all mine," Negan drawls.

When Carol has gone back inside her house, Rick shoots Negan a glance and says, "What was that?"

"What?"

Rick isn't really sure how to describe what just happened there. " _That_."

"You're embarrassed of me." A smirk grows on Negan's mouth like a vine. "That's why you didn't want her to meet me."

"You _are_ embarrassing," Rick acknowledges, "but that's not why..." He rubs his scruffy chin, starts over. "I wanna stay in the bubble a little bit longer."

Negan covers Judith's ears for a moment as he says, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Rick sighs. How does Negan not know about the bubble? "The beginning of a relationship. Lori called it the bubble, 'cause it's just fun and easy. There's no problems or stress."

"And you don't consider Carl's reaction to us stressful or a problem?"

"That's my point," Rick says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "If this turns into something real, we're gonna have to deal with even more of that, along with everyone in town knowing our business and maybe risking our jobs and a whole bunch of other un-fun stuff. This is the easy part, and I don't wanna let go of that yet."

Negan thinks that over. "Fair enough. But it's just dinner, and Carol seems like the type to be all up in your business anyway. But it's up to you, Rick. You know this town better than I do."

* * *

Rick decides to take the plunge and arranges for dinner with Carol and Morgan the next day. None of them are busy, so Carol has all afternoon to prepare the food for tonight.

It's around six p.m., and Rick has showered and changed into Nice Clothes, which makes Carl suspicious. "You have a date?" Carl says with a grimace, like he doesn't want to know the answer.

"Sort of. Carol and Morgan are having us over for dinner."

"'Us' being...?"

"The four of us."

Carl makes an exasperated noise, sprawled over the couch in a particularly dramatic way.

"I wouldn't lay there if I were you," Rick warns.

Carl shoots up like something out of a toaster and abandons the sofa. "No! Are you serious? Is there any surface in this house you two haven't _defiled_?"

Rick chuckles to himself. Negan's right; Carl's overreactions are hilarious. Well worth the price of admission.

"Please tell me the kitchen's still sacred," Carl begs.

"For now."

"Ugh. That's where we eat!"

The doorbell rings, and Rick answers, swinging open the door to reveal Negan standing there, proud as a peacock. "Well, look at you all dressed up!" Negan says, sauntering inside like he lives here. Which he kind of does.

"Look at you... wearing that same outfit. Do you own any other clothes?"

"You oughta know, Rick. You're the one who's been taking 'em off," Negan says as he tucks himself into Rick's personal space.

"Gross," Carl interjects, turning away so he doesn't have to witness any displays of affection between them.

But Rick barely hears him, dazzled by Negan's proximity and impish smirk. Every time Negan gets close, Rick's heart jackhammers inside his chest and butterflies erupt in his stomach, making him feel simultaneously terrified and empowered enough to take on the world. He settles for getting a hand in Negan's jacket and tugging him close until there's no more space between them anymore, and Negan's mouth is hot over his own. Rick loses himself a little, his hands reaching up to either side of Negan's face and scraping his nails through the scruff there.

"I can hear you guys kissing!" Carl scolds pointedly.

Negan breaks away from Rick's mouth to say, "You're gonna hear a lot more than that eventually," with a wicked grin, and Carl groans in disgust, and Rick laughs at how vulgar and ridiculous his boyfriend is, and he's not going to panic that he just thought of Negan as his boyfriend, because this is a perfect moment in their relatively stress-free bubble.

"Maybe don't be gross tonight?" Rick suggests, fixing the lapels of Negan's leather jacket. "I want Carol and Morgan to like you. If they don't, I'm gonna get an earful."

Negan scowls in frustration, because he definitely sees an opportunity to make a dirty joke here, but he can't, and it's killing him inside. "I charmed the pants right off of _you_." He gives Rick a toothy smile, fully aware of the innuendo there and looking for all the world like he's proud of himself for not making the joke.

Rick blushes. "Well, I don't think Carol will appreciate the full brunt of your, uh, charm. Just dial it back a bit."

"Right, we don't want the poor woman disrobing. Think of how Morgan would feel."

God, Negan is so obnoxiously confident it makes Rick want to do dirty, filthy things to him.

"Can we just go?" Carl whines, and, yeah, maybe Rick's stalling a little.

"It could be worse," Negan tells him, easing his hands into the back pockets of Rick's jeans and giving his ass a little squeeze. "Your dad could'a gone for Ron Anderson's super-hot mom instead of me. Which would sort of make you and Ron brothers. Now how about that?"

Carl just grumbles something about the devil you know, but he really doesn't have a good argument for that one.

Carol greets them with a bright smile when the four of them ring the doorbell. "There you are! Come in, come in!"

Carol's home is warm and cozy, but the interior decorating reminds Rick of a Florida retiree's beach house. Golden Girls chic. There are floral-patterned couches and pastel colors and wicker furniture. Morgan's in the kitchen wearing an apron and setting out two delicious-looking pies; both are sort of unidentifiable, but one has some reddish spots around the edges that might be cherries or cranberries. Also cooling on the countertop is a casserole dish of potatoes au gratin.

Rick joins Morgan while Carol fawns over Negan and Judith, and Carl latches onto Sophia like she's a life preserver in this sea of insanity.

"Really went all out on the pie thing, huh?" Rick jokes. "Which one's yours?"

"Chicken pot pie," Morgan says, pointing to one of the golden-crusted pies. "Carol wanted to debut her cranberry pie recipe tonight."

"Negan will appreciate that."

Morgan lifts an eyebrow. "So you and Negan, huh?"

Rick laughs, ducking his head to hide the way his cheeks flush red at the name. "It's complicated."

"Brain surgery is complicated. Matters of the heart tend not to be."

"You'd be surprised."

"Oh, I am surprised," Morgan says with a smile. He unties his apron and hangs it on the hook inside the walk-in pantry door. "But I think I get it. He's lonely. You're lonely. You found each other."

"How'd you know about him?" Rick wonders. "He's not really a big talker when it comes to personal stuff."

"You're right, but sometimes it's what people don't say. He comes into that diner about twice a week, and I've never seen him talk to anyone the way he talked to you that day. He's got no ring on his finger, no girls he brings around or even talks about. And I see him spike his sodas when he thinks I'm not looking."

A smile twitches at the corner of Rick's mouth in remembrance.

"Do my eyes deceive me, or do I see two pies here?" Negan says, strolling into the kitchen. "Morgan, you sonovabitch, you spoil me."

"I can't take all the credit. Carol helped, too."

"Well, shit, why are we standin' around like a couple of assholes? Let's eat!"

Rick can already tell this evening's going to be a profanity-laced disaster.

Except, it's not. Carl makes up a lame homework-related excuse to eat upstairs with Sophia, which Carol grants because she's already been briefed on Carl's penchant for sass when Negan's involved. That leaves the adults free to break out the wine and talk freely while Judith happily eats without a care.

Carol asks the typical questions regarding how they met, and Negan answers with charm and honesty, and he doesn't drink or swear too much, and Rick thinks there might be a future here. That his self-indulgent fantasies about a life with Negan aren't too far off the mark. Negan's casually sloped in his chair, jacket draped over the back, and if he's nervous about Carol and Morgan's appraisal he's not showing it. Throughout the main course he's made them laugh quite a few times, and Carol has given Rick a few brief, knowing smile, as though approving of his choice in men.

Over dessert, Carol asks, "Negan, where did you live before you came here?"

"A small town in Michigan. Actually smaller than this."

Carol seems to know instinctively to stay away from any questions regarding Negan's family, but she does seem like she's digging for information. "So what brought you to King County? We're not really known for anything."

"After I left Michigan, I just started driving. A road trip with no destination, I guess you'd call it," Negan says. "I went all over. Took me about six months, just visiting a bunch of different states, trying to find something worth holding onto. But I made it here, and somethin' told me I should give up the nomad thing and start over. So I did."

"Were you a teacher back in Michigan too?"

"For a while, yeah. Before that I was a mechanic, but my first wife thought I should have a more 'respectable' job."

Carol senses something there but doesn't poke at it. "First wife? How many times have you been married?"

"Twice." Negan turns his head to Rick. "Third time's the charm, right, Rick?"

Rick feels like he might combust. He finishes off his glass of wine, hoping to pass off the color in his cheeks as a side-effect of the alcohol.

Negan laughs. "He is _so_ uptight," he says, punctuating the word with a shake of his head. "Man, is it fun to yank his chain."

Why isn't there enough wine to thoroughly drown his shame, Rick wonders. "You were a mechanic?" he sputters, trying to steer the conversation away from the inevitable dirty joke.

"You think that bucket of bolts out there was always in such good shape? She was my dad's, before he split and left it in our driveway. Been keepin' her running for almost thirty years."

Rick's never heard Negan talk about his parents before. He wonders if it's a sore subject, but the wine has loosened his tongue, so he doesn't have the self-control to keep his questions to himself. "Your dad? What was he like?"

"A huge d-bag," Negan says, censoring himself for Judith's sake, which Rick finds weirdly charming. "He didn't used to be, but after the war he just... changed."

Rick doesn't know how old Negan is exactly, but he's guessing "the war" is probably the Vietnam War.

"Lucky for us he skipped town after a couple years of knockin' us around. Left the car as a parting gift."

Carol's expression softens almost imperceptibly. No one's really sure how to respond to that, so they just sit there in silence until Negan sighs and says, "C'mon, I didn't get too real for you, did I? Don't worry your pretty heads over me. I am totally well-adjusted."

"He said, convincing no one," Rick adds, teasing.

Negan gives him a smart-ass, 'go fuck yourself' look that tells Rick he's earned himself some Fifty Shades of Grey-level sex. Ugh, he'll probably have to call Negan 'Daddy' if he wants to get off.

"You see what a sassy boyfriend I have?" Negan says, pleading his case to Carol and Morgan with an exasperated sigh.

Rick swears his heart stops beating for a moment, because Negan just called him his boyfriend. Holy shit, is that what they are? Did Negan just admit—out loud and to other people—that he and Rick are an actual couple?

Maybe Negan wants this—the suburban happily-ever-after, raising kids and growing old together—just as much as Rick does. Negan's never seemed to give much of a shit what people think about him, but he seems like he's trying to make a good impression here—charming Rick's neighbors, cleaning up his language around Judith—because maybe he wants to be a permanent part of Rick's life.

After dinner, the four of them make it back home, and Rick feels deliciously tipsy and carefree, and it's hard for him to remember a time before Negan when he felt like this. Carl storms off to his room, unwilling to spend any more time with the two of them than absolutely necessary, and Judith climbs onto the couch to play with a toy she'd left there.

Since Judith's adequately distracted, Rick pushes his hands underneath Negan's jacket, tries to slip in close the way Negan does, but he feels like a doofus. Negan doesn't seem to mind, nipping at Rick's mouth and jerking him closer by the beltloops.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ Rick thinks, but he's never been the best at talking about his feelings, which had been a point of contention between him and Lori during their last few years. So as he licks his way into Negan's mouth and tastes the sweet traces of cranberries and grapes there, Rick hears himself say, "You should move in," when he manages to break away from Negan's sinful lips.

Negan looks momentarily stunned before covering it up with a lopsided grin. "Movin' awful fast, aren't you, cowboy?"

"You made a marriage joke over dinner," Rick reminds him. "This is nothin'."

"Carl will have a shitfit," Negan says, mouthing at Rick's jaw.

Rick sighs, the words puncturing his stress-free bubble. Negan pulls back to look at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Part of me thinks this will be good for him, eventually," Rick elaborates. "But the other part thinks I'm just bein' selfish."

Negan shakes his head, his hands skimming over Rick's sides before curving around his waist. "Speaking as somewhat of an expert on deadbeat dads, I think you're doin' a damn fine job, all things considering."

"What changed your mind?"

Negan cocks an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"When we talked at the jail, you said I was pushing him away."

"And you were goin' through some serious shit. I'm cutting you some slack. But..." Negan lifts a hand to Rick's face and strokes his thumb over his cheek, making Rick shiver. "Would you be askin' me to move in if you didn't have alcohol on your breath?"

Rick exhales in an angry flare. "I'm not drunk."

"I didn't say you were. But I think your judgment's a little impaired."

"You were drinking too."

"I'm not the one asking my boyfriend of less than a week to move in."

Okay, maybe Rick's being a little overbearing here. Tone it back a bit. It's entirely possible losing Lori has encouraged Rick to dive headfirst into this without giving it time to simmer and percolate. He ought to enjoy what's left of the bubble while it lasts.

But, holy Christ, he said it again. _Boyfriend_.

Rick's not a thirteen-year-old girl, so he shouldn't get all fluttery inside when Negan says that, but _damn_.

"Why don't we see how you feel about it in the morning?" Negan says. "I've been a lot of people's drunken mistakes, but it'd kill me to be one of yours."

That's one of the sweetest things Rick's ever heard. He mimics Negan's earlier face-stroking motion, his salt-and-pepper beard raking over Rick's palm and thumb, and he recalls how it feels between his thighs. Need flares up inside of him, and Negan sees it in his eyes but doesn't give in, just kisses Rick's forehead and squeezes his shoulder.

"See you, cowboy." Negan disentangles from Rick and leans over the top of the couch, pushing a hand through Judith's hair. "Good night, Princess. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Judith looks at him with wide, watery eyes. "No sleepover?"

"No, not tonight, darlin'. I think your dad could use the space."

Judith gives Rick an almost accusing glance, like she blames him entirely for this.

"But I'll come around tomorrow, don't you worry," Negan tells her. "I can't stay away too long. You keep your daddy in line, alright?"

"Okay!" Judith says, and it's a toss-up whether she even knows what Negan's asking, but damn if she's not enthusiastic about it.

Negan winks and clicks his tongue at her before turning back to Rick. "Stay out of trouble," he says, giving Rick a quick kiss. Then he's out the door.

Rick is a little baffled Negan didn't find a way for them to have depraved sex tonight, but he thinks that might be a good sign, a sign that Negan doesn't just view Rick as something to stick his cock into.

A boyfriend.

Rick smiles, warmed by the thought.

"Daddy, Carl doesn't like Uncle Negan," Judith says conspiratorially, like she's letting Rick in on a huge secret.

"I know."

"Why?"

Rick scrubs a hand through his hair. How the hell is he supposed to answer that? He drops next to her onto the couch. "I guess he thinks Uncle Negan's trying to take your mom's place in our family. But it's not like that. Carl doesn't understand that the way I feel about Negan doesn't mean I don't love your mom anymore."

Judith blinks. "Mama?"

"You remember her?"

Judith puts her hand to her mouth, shakes her head.

Rick realizes there are parts of his heart still able to be broken. He takes his daughter in his arms and says, "She loved you a lot. You would have loved her, too. She was smart and kindhearted and idealistic. She had the energy of a ten-year-old and the same taste in snacks." Rick chuckles to himself, recalling Lori's penchant for sweets. "She would have loved watching you grow up," he says, immediately bumming himself out.

Judith senses the drop in Rick's mood and tugs at his shirt with her tiny hands. "I love you, Daddy." Like it's a reminder.

"I know, pumpkin. I love you too."


	12. Chapter 12

Carl isn't the starter for Friday evening's game, but he does make an appearance as a relief pitcher. He's getting better, even Rick can tell, with more focus and control over his fastball. The game is tied in the fifth inning with no outs and runners at the corners. If the batter gets the ball into the outfield, pretty much anywhere, the third baseman scores a run. Putting Carl in at this juncture shows Negan's faith in him, and Carl isn't going to let him down. Negan had been right on the money regarding Carl's drive to upstage Ron Anderson; as much as Carl hates Negan, he's not going to sabotage his own chances on the mound.

Carol's busy tonight with Morgan, so Rick is stuck sitting with Jessie Anderson and her son Sam. It would be incorrect to say Rick doesn't like her, but her tendency to strike up conversations with him when he's trying to focus on Carl is a little irritating.

Which is what she's doing right now.

"Carl's hair is getting really long." As a hairdresser, it's something she would notice, but Rick's never given it much thought until she just pointed it out. "He's always shaking it out of his face," Jessie says as Carl does just that before pitching a sinking slider the ump calls a strike.

"I think that's the style now," Rick says. He's got no idea if that's true or not. But he's observed the popular boys—like Ron—tend to have shorter styles, and the less-confident ones use their hair like a curtain they can duck behind to hide from the arrows of adolescence.

Or maybe Carl refuses to get a haircut from anyone other than his mom, seeing as she had been the one to trim his hair.

Jessie smooths her palms over her jeans and clasps her hands together. Her bracelets jingle at the motion, and she looks at Rick, the gentle breeze blowing her hair. "I see you took off your ring."

Of course she'd notice that. But while Michonne saw it as a sign of emotional growth, Jessie's looking at it from a more opportunistic point of view.

That's probably an unfair assumption. Maybe Jessie is just as invested in Rick's well-being, but as an outsider she's never really had the chance to be accepted into his inner circle, so her concern comes off as fake.

"I did," Rick says.

The batter fouls back a fastball for a second strike.

"So I hope I'm not being too forward by asking if you wanna have dinner with me sometime?"

Rick is oddly startled by her invitation, despite seeing it coming a mile away. But he's been so busy dealing with Negan he'd forgotten that, from the outside looking in, he still appears to be single and unattached.

"Oh... Well, I'm already sort of seeing someone," Rick manages, fidgeting with his wristwatch.

Jessie blinks in surprise, a tinge of pink splashing across her cheeks. "Oh, I didn't know. Good for you! Anyone I know?"

Rick smiles to himself, though an onlooker would assume he's smiling at Carl's success of earning an out after the batter chases a low slider. "I don't kiss and tell."

"You're a real gentleman, aren't you?"

"Guess I am." Far more than Negan, but giving Rick his space last night showed a level of maturity he wasn't sure Negan even possessed.

With one out to his name, Carl seems to gain a bit of confidence, and the infield moves in for a double play. The next batter is a scrawny kid who looks like the weight of the bat is a little too much for him, so Carl takes his chances with a low pitch to the outside corner. Strike one.

The second pitch is rebuffed with a bunt, which, yeah, makes sense when the batter probably couldn't swing the bat without falling over. The ball skips toward the mound and ends up in Carl's glove. He fires to first, getting the out, and the first baseman throws to home, beating the runner on third. Inning over.

As Carl heads to the dugout, Negan fistpumps and says, "Now that's what I'm talkin' about, kid!"

Rick can't see Carl's face, but he's guessing Carl isn't warming up to Negan any time soon.

After the game, Rick and Judith meet Carl near the dugout to congratulate him. "You were good today," Rick tells him, and he means it.

Carl fights a little smile. Noah's one of the last of Carl's teammates to leave, and he slaps him on the back and says, "Good game, dude," before jogging off the field.

"Thanks," Carl calls back, looking somewhat embarrassed but appreciative of the compliments.

"They're not wrong, kid," Negan says, just sort of appearing behind Rick, but his focus is on Carl. "You earned your keep today, that's for damn sure."

Carl's expression quickly turns into a scowl, but there's a hint of pride there in the corners of his mouth, because even if he hates Negan, he can't deny impressing his coach means a lot. "Thanks," Carl grumbles.

"There's no shame in relief pitching," Negan says, like they've had this conversation before. "If you're good, you can save our asses."

If Negan's been experimenting with Carl's pitching—using him as a starter and reliever—he must really be invested in the kid's potential, seeking out the best position for Carl's talent.

Negan claps a hand on Rick's shoulder. Rick doesn't flinch away despite them being in plain view of anyone with eyes. "Speaking of asses..."

Rick smiles. "Stop."

"Ugh," Carl groans.

"You're right, I shouldn't corrupt the little one." Negan smiles at Judith, who Rick's holding in his arms. Judith reaches out for him, and Negan gives her a high-five. "You keepin' your dad outta trouble?"

"Uh-huh!" Judith answers with gusto.

"That's my girl."

Rick's heart swells and swells and might actually burst out of his chest. Then Negan looks at him, and Rick feels a goofy smile crawl across his face. "Are you coming over?" he hears himself ask.

"Maybe, maybe not. Depends what you got in mind."

"Well, we could order pizza—"

"Nope, nope. Stop right there. At some point you're gonna have to learn how to cook. Why don't I teach you how to make something that doesn't look like garbage you'd see in a prison cafeteria?"

"You said you don't cook."

"That, darlin', was a little white lie so you'd go out with me." Negan grins, his teeth gleaming.

Rick never imagined he'd be swooning over being called "darlin'" by a sleazy, honey-smooth voice, but here he is. "You lied to the sheriff?"

"And you bought it hook, line, and sinker."

Fair enough.

Carl isn't too thrilled about tonight's arrangement, but he can just fucking deal with it. Rick's tired of feeling guilty about something good in his life.

About an hour and a half later, Negan shows up at the Grimes' house with a sack of groceries and a smile. "Bon fuckin' appetit, Rick."

Rick shakes his head, chuckling to himself as he lets Negan inside. Negan's hair is slick and shiny, and he smells of cologne that makes Rick a little weak in the knees. "I should'a known you were puttin' me on with that 'I don't cook' nonsense."

"I'm not claiming to be a master chef here, but I know a few things, and it's my duty to pass on that knowledge to the less fortunate."

"'The less fortunate' being me?"

"Abso-fuckin'-lutely. You have a full spice rack but you can barely make macaroni?" Negan scoffs and heads for the kitchen.

Judith is sitting at the dining table, focused on the Disney coloring book in front of her, but when Negan approaches she immediately diverts her attention to him. "Uncle Negan!"

"Hey, kiddo! Told you I'd drop by. Your dad just can't get enough of me."

"Daddy likes you," Judith agrees, and Rick feels his cheeks blaze.

"Is that so?" Negan turns on his heel to look at Rick, grinning at the level-ten stage of blushing on Rick's face. "Does that mean I get to take you to prom? Maybe wear your letter-jacket?" He moves in close and steals a kiss, and Rick is overwhelmed with how fucking amazing his mouth feels and how good he smells and how much Judith likes him.

They're still impossibly close when their mouths break apart, and Rick teases, "I don't know where she got that idea."

There's a very specific smile Negan has when he looks at Rick; it doesn't happen all the time, but when it does it's a thing to be cherished, because it's not smug or snarky or even amused, just a flicker of pure warmth and adoration in his mouth and eyes, like Negan can't believe he landed a guy like Rick.

Rick's never thought he was particularly special, and it's hard to recall the last time Lori looked at him that way.

Food for thought.

After Negan gets the kitchen set up to his liking, Rick loiters near the stove where Negan's cooking onions and garlic in a pot. "So what's for dinner?"

"I call it 'Negan's Mouth Surprise.'"

"Oh, please don't."

Negan snickers, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You and Lucille had the exact same reaction to that. What're the odds?"

"I think they're pretty high." Rick picks up a nearby can of sun-dried tomatoes. "Anything I can help with? I could chop something, or—"

"No. Nope. I'm not risking you slicing your fingers off."

"I carry a gun, y'know."

"Is that a threat?" Negan asks, looking amused by that possibility.

"It's a reminder I'm not as clumsy as you like to think."

"Most accidents happen in the home, Rick." Negan tosses some flour into the pot. "And you plus sharp objects equals hell no. Not in my kitchen."

"This isn't your kitchen," Rick reminds him, but his heart's all aflutter with the possibility that it could be, in time.

"It is when I'm cooking in it."

"So if I can't help, what am I s'posed to do?"

"Watch and learn."

So Rick does, watching Negan pour an assortment of creamy things into the pot. He's a little insulted that Negan doesn't trust him not to cause some sort of cooking-related disaster, but he'll get over it.

"I guess Lori was the designated cook in the family, huh?" Negan asks.

Rick nods and leans against the fridge, trying to look casual. "Her mother was big on family dinners. Used to cook up a whole bunch of food for the holidays."

"So how've you been feeding your kids for the past two years?"

"I'm not helpless. I just don't really have time or the energy to make a big meal. Carl tends to fend for himself anyway."

"Excuses, excuses," Negan says, shaking his head.

While the pasta's boiling in another pan, Carl's voice sounds from the dining room. "Oh look, it's an actual kitchen nightmare."

"Don't worry, you don't have to eat with us," Rick says, cutting Carl off at the pass, because he wants an enjoyable evening with Negan that isn't interrupted every few seconds with Carl's gagging noises and snide comments. Maybe he's taking the easy way out in regards to parenting, but he's hedging his bets on Carl moving past this resentment eventually, so why not make it easier for all of them in the meantime?

Carl pulls up, stunned by Rick's acquiesce. "No argument? Why are you being so cool?"

"I am cool," Rick protests, earning laughter from both Carl and Negan. A little offended, Rick spreads his hands. "Looks like I actually got you two to agree on somethin'."

Carl rolls his eyes. "It's just a fluke. Don't read too much into it."

Within a few minutes, the soup is ready. Carl fixes himself a bowl, grabs a soda out of the fridge and hurries up the stairs to the safety of his bedroom. It takes a bit of coaxing—and picking out the mushrooms and tomato pieces—but Negan actually gets Judith to eat something that isn't chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese.

"How'd you do that?" Rick wonders, awed.

"She likes me," Negan says with a shrug, like it's that simple.

Judith's already taken a spoonful and isn't protesting, so Rick figures maybe the soup's not terrible. He takes a bite for himself. It's creamy and smooth and delicious.

"Not bad."

"Not bad?" Negan scoffs. "You're killin' me, Rick. It's freakin' amazing and you know it."

Negan's attempts at G-rated swears around Judith never fail to warm Rick's heart.

"Where'd you learn to make this?"

"Y'know any bozo can look things up on the internet, right?"

"Is that what this particular bozo did?" Rick asks, pointing a teasing finger at Negan.

Negan grins. "You're a hell of a flirt, Grimes. Good thing your boy's not here."

It's an infrequent happenstance that the three-year-old is less chaotic company than the teenager, but Rick's life is full of surprises lately.

After dinner, Negan volunteers to clean up—"Your kitchen is a disgrace, Rick"—while Rick gets Judith ready for bed. "Is Uncle Negan sleeping over?" she asks during her bath.

Rick doesn't know. Should he ask Negan to stay? It's already happened once, so it's not like that would be new territory for them. And Rick's already embarrassed himself by inviting Negan to move in. Asking him to stay the night should be laughably simply by this point.

"I don't know," Rick says after a moment of thought. "I haven't asked him."

"Why?"

Rick doesn't really have an answer for that. "I forgot. I'll ask him, but he might not want to sleep over tonight."

Judith frowns, her hands breaking through the water's surface in a defeated sort of way.

"Would you like it if Uncle Negan lived with us?" Rick thinks he ought to get permission from his kids before taking any huge steps like cohabitation.

Judith slaps the water with excitement, splashing the front of Rick's shirt. "Yeah! Carl says it was better when Mama was here. So maybe it'll be better if Uncle Negan's here too."

Probably not better for Carl, Rick thinks in a joking moment of cynicism, but he knows this will be good for Carl in the long run. At least that's what he's telling himself so he doesn't feel like a selfish asshole for pursuing this relationship. He's still a little fucked up on that despite Negan's pep talk. Because Negan has a hell of a lot to gain by keeping them together, so he's not exactly an unbiased source.

As Rick tucks Judith into bed, she says, "Daddy, can Uncle Negan read my story tonight?"

Whoa.

Rick tries not to look stunned, but he can't help it. "Um... Why don't we ask him?"

He gets her in his arms and heads for the stairs. Negan has finished with kitchen duty, and he's stretched out on the couch, his socked feet kicked up on the coffee table while he plays with his phone. The sounds of Rick's footsteps on the stairs catch Negan's attention, and he looks up to see Rick holding Judith.

"Well, aren't you two just adorable?"

Rick smiles, embarrassed. "She wants you to read to her."

Negan blinks, stunned, almost a mirror of Rick's own reaction, then a smile crawls across his face that Rick's never seen before. It's awed and warm and brilliant, like he never imagined in a thousand years he'd have a second chance at a family. "No way, really?" His voice catches around the words, as though pulling back on a 'no shit.'

"Please?" Judith begs, and there's no way anyone can resist that.

"At your service, doll," Negan says with nary a trace of sarcasm. He slides off the couch and up the stairs. Rick hands her off to him, and Negan holds her like he's done this a thousand time. Judith wraps her arms around his neck. "What's your favorite story?"

"Frozen!"

"Frozen it is, then." Negan carries her down the hall to her bedroom, and Rick watches, a million different feelings bouncing around in his chest. But the most prominent is joy, exhilaration that Negan so seamlessly blends into his family, as though filling a space that's always been meant for him.

It's ridiculous to think Rick's moving too fast by wanting Negan as a permanent fixture in this home. Things are moving at exactly the rate they need to be; Rick spent two years in a haze after Lori died, and now he's just catching up to where he ought to be: ready to try again. And Negan seems like he's on the same wavelength, so what's the problem?

Oh, right. Carl.

Rick should probably get Carl's permission before making any drastic changes to their home life. Okay, maybe not permission, because Carl's the kid here, but maybe blessing?

That sounds like Carl's the fucking Godfather and Rick's asking him for a favor on the day of his daughter's wedding—

Wedding.

Oh, shit. Tara and Rosita's wedding is tomorrow.

Should Rick invite Negan as his guest?

One problem at a time.

Rick heads to Carl's room and knocks, earning a muffled, "What?" from inside.

"Can I talk to you?"

A few seconds later, Carl opens the door, giving Rick his usual side-eye. "Is he gone?"

Rick thinks about telling him Negan's in Judith's room reading to her, but he wants Carl to be as agreeable as possible to this, and that would just enrage him. Rick shakes his head. "He's still here."

Carl exhales a bratty sigh.

"That's what I wanna talk to you about. Can I come in?"

Carl shrugs and lets him inside. The laptop screen glows bright on the unmade bed, and Carl pushes it aside so Rick has a place to sit if he chooses. Rick considers standing, but that might come off as too intimidating and parental. So he sits on the edge of the bed, making like they're equals.

Rick isn't sure how to start, so he just lays it on the line. "I know you don't understand it, but I like Negan a lot, and I want him to be part of our family. I've been thinkin' about asking him to move in, but I want you to be okay with it. " He considers mentioning how much Judith likes Negan, but he doesn't want to seem like he's pressuring Carl or giving him the 'why can't you be more like your sister' spiel.

Carl folds his arms over his chest, shaking his head. "Not yet, okay? Just... wait."

"You think it's just a phase, huh?"

Carl gets up from the bed and paces the floor, kicking dirty clothes out of his pathway. "What if it was me? What if I had a girlfriend I'd only been dating for a week and I wanted to get married? You'd tell me no."

"'Cause you're fifteen." Rick's stalling, because he sees what Carl's getting at.

"But what if I wasn't? What if I was eighteen? You'd still give me the whole dad talk about how I'm making a mistake and I'm too young to know what love is and how I shouldn't just settle for the first person I meet who likes me."

"But I couldn't stop you."

"You'd want to."

Rick nods, conceding. "I probably would. But making mistakes is how you learn."

"But if you're making a mistake with Negan, that doesn't just affect you. It affects me and Judith too. And Negan, I guess." Carl leans against the wall near his bedroom window. "How long did you wait with Mom?"

"It took me a while," Rick says. "But I was young and scared. It's different now."

"He'll die, y'know."

When the hell did Carl get so morbid?

Carl continues: "He's older than you, so he'll probably die first. Can you handle that again?"

Rick shuts down his initial reaction of 'what the fuck, Carl' and tries to focus on the question. He's already lived through losing the love of his life once, but he doesn't think that's something you ever get used to. You don't come back from that twice, not without some serious emotional damage, and it's still up in the air whether Rick's come back at all.

And Negan... Oh Jesus. He's already lost Lucille. If Rick went first...

"That's a really messed up question," Rick says, because he's got nothing.

"But it's important. And you said Negan lost his wife too. So both of you are kinda screwed."

"You're not s'posed to focus on the end. It's the beginning and middle that make the end worthwhile."

"So you wouldn't undo it? If you could go back and stop yourself from marrying Mom..."

Rick shakes his head. He doesn't regret any of it. "No. 'Cause she's the reason you and Judith are here. I loved her. I still do. I wouldn't change that."

Carl stares at his hands in his lap, letting Rick's words sink in. He fidgets with a cuticle, and Rick wants to tell him to stop. "You should still wait."

Fair enough. At least they had a civil conversation that didn't end with Carl threatening to run away. Rick's counting that as progress.

"Hey, Dad?" Carl says. "How'd you ask Mom out?"

"Well, I didn't, really. Shane set us up. Why? Are you gonna ask someone out?"

Blush floods Carl's cheeks, and he glances away. "Yeah."

Pride swells in Rick's chest. His little boy is growing up, on the cusp of getting his first girlfriend. "It's Enid, isn't it?"

Carl doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to.

"It's okay," Rick says. He'd be kind of a hypocrite for side-eyeing Enid yet expecting Carl to just accept this thing with Negan. Funny how neither of the Grimes men like the other's date, for no real solidified reason besides 'they just irk me.'

"How do you ask out a girl without sounding like a desperate loser?" Carl asks.

Rick's not sure he's the best person to ask here, but this is his fatherly duty, so he trudges on. "Well, what does she like?"

Carl shrugs. "Music. Video games. Movies. Comic books."

"You could ask her to a movie. There's gotta be at least one comic book movie out now, right?"

"Yeah, but... I dunno, it just feels obvious. Like she'll know exactly why I'm asking."

"If she likes you, she'll be glad you asked. She might be just as nervous as you are."

"What if she doesn't like me?"

"Then it's best you find out sooner rather than later."

Carl nods, grabbing his phone off the bed and staring at it for a moment before typing something. Rick smiles to himself, remembering his first few nerve-wracking texts to Negan, how the few seconds it took for him to answer felt like a thousand eternities.

"Oh God," Carl groans, turning his head away from the screen. "I hate this."

"I wish I could tell you it gets easier."

"So just lie and say it does. It's for the greater good, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny."

The phone buzzes in Carl's hand, and he almost throws it across the room like it's a live grenade. But his instincts get the better of him, and he reads the message on screen. A smile grows on his face. "She said 'sure.'" He looks at Rick. "No way!" The phone vibrates again. "She's not busy tomorrow." Carl's expression turns pleading. "Can I please go out tomorrow? You can have Negan move in and I won't complain, I swear—"

Rick holds up a hand to stop Carl's flood of words. "It's fine. You can go. I'll be busy tomorrow anyway with the wedding."

"Wedding?" Panic flashes across Carl's face for a moment.

"Tara and Rosita."

"Oh." Relief, then Carl's brown knits in distress. "You're not gonna ask Negan to go with you, are you?"

Rick's been wondering about that himself, but it doesn't feel right. Tomorrow is a celebration of Tara and Rosita's love, not a time for Rick to parade his new relationship and steal their thunder.

And of course this isn't an easy, well-intentioned excuse to prolong his inevitable coming out. Not at all.

Rick shakes his head. "No, I'm not. Don't worry."

"Good. 'Cause if you did, people would find out and everyone at school would make fun of me."

"People are gonna find out sooner or later," Rick says, because if Carol's noticed the shiny black Impala parked out front of his house, odds are someone else has too. Maybe they've written it off as Rick having a friend over for a beer or two, but an astute observer would see what's really going on.

Carl's face scrunches up in anticipation of a blow.

"I taught you how to fight," Rick reminds him. "If any bullies try to give you shit, you give it right back."

"You're giving me permission to punch people?" Carl asks, sounding skeptical.

"I'm giving you permission to defend yourself." Rick thinks that's an important distinction, but a voice in the back of his head tells him Carl's going to twist that all to hell.

"Mom would go nuts if she knew you said that."

"Well, it'll be our little secret." Rick smiles, and, to his surprise, so does Carl.

They hug and trade stilted 'I love you's and Rick reminds him to go to bed at a decent hour, but it's Friday night so he's not going to be too strict about it.

As Rick's leaving Carl's room, Negan leaves Judith's. They meet at the doorway to Rick's bedroom, and Rick's certain he has that stupid, dazzled expression on his face, because he can't stop thinking about how goddamn sweet it is that Judith has accepted Negan as part of the family. "How'd it go?" Rick asks as Negan fills the space between them, his hands finding Rick's waist.

"She made a valiant effort to stay awake 'til the end, but my dulcet tones can be pretty fucking soothing."

"You're puttin' me to sleep," Rick agrees, solely for the little ass squeeze Negan gives him as punishment for his smart mouth.

"I'll get you in bed, but you sure ain't gonna be sleeping." Negan guides Rick into the bedroom, closing the door with his foot as he fulfills his promise and deposits Rick onto the mattress. Rick goes willingly, completely ready for Negan to strip him bare and fuck him senseless.

Negan's mouth is ravenous, but his hands are tender and patient, slowly unbuttoning and unzipping and tracing hot lines over Rick's exposed skin. Rick squirms atop the duvet, his hips jerking and twisting and seeking friction. Negan nips at Rick's mouth while a warm palm glides along the inside of his naked thigh. Rick makes a pathetic noise, and Negan chuckles.

"Shit, you're all riled up and ready to go, huh?" Negan glances down, catching sight of Rick's hard, leaking cock, and licks his lips.

Rick fumbles for the elastic of Negan's briefs, tugging them down over his hips for access to his dick. But Negan stops him, pinning Rick's wrists behind his head, against the soft give of the mattress, and, okay, Rick's really turned on right now.

"Please," Rick huffs out, because he's not above begging. He hooks his legs around Negan's hips, trying to coax him.

Negan ignores his plea, kissing his chin and licking the hollow of his throat and mouthing over his bicep. Rick struggles against his restraints and shivers at the bristly kisses.

Negan likes dirty talk, so Rick tries that as his next tactic. "C'mon, baby, fuck me," he drawls. "Use me. I'm yours." Negan frees Rick's wrists so he can inch down and open his mouth around a nipple. Rick sucks in a breath, his hands finding Negan's back, fingers gnarling in his hair. Negan adds a bit of teeth, and Rick's back leaves the mattress in a needy arch.

I love you, he wants to say, but it feels wrong to say it here, as a sort-of manipulative ploy to get his ass pounded.

"You drive a hard bargain, Rick," Negan says, dropping hot kisses down Rick's chest. "But I'm not gonna fuck you tonight."

Goddamn tease, Rick thinks, squirming against Negan's hands and mouth, but they're connected within moments, and Rick's about to take him for a liar until Negan begins to move inside of him. Rick gasps around Negan's aggressive kisses, because it's never been like this, slow and deliberate and sensual. Negan touches Rick like he's delicate, one gentle hand curved around his ass as their hips rock together.

"Shit, will you stay still?" Negan laughs through kisses, claiming Rick's mouth in teasing little nips. "I'll get you off, baby, but you gotta let me do the screwin'."

Rick makes himself stop, his shaking hands grappling at Negan's back. His fingers dig in with each thrust, with the way Negan's mouth leaves him breathless and rubbed raw. Rick pushes his heels against Negan's ass, and he can't help pushing his hips into the steady rhythm, nudging his erection against the hard muscle of Negan's stomach, because he wants so, so much more, and it's not like Negan to be patient when it comes to orgasms.

Then Rick realizes they're making love, and it should be the corniest fucking thing in the world, but it's not.

Negan grunts a mildly irritated noise into the space between Rick's cheek and shoulder, obviously annoyed by Rick's eager participation. But it doesn't stop his languid pace, and Rick grips the backs of Negan's thighs, trying to coax him deeper to soothe the low ache. His nails bite into skin, and Negan rumbles with arousal. "Goddamn, it's been ages since I've been scratched up," he says, and Rick takes that as permission to continue, and it's not like he has to force himself to rake his nails over Negan's skin while they're joined like this.

Negan's hand on Rick's ass tilts his hips for a better angle, and Rick's still new at this so it doesn't take much to break him apart. Rick shudders and lets go, every muscle loose and tight at once, and he claws at Negan's back as his orgasm leaves him like a thread unraveling, slow and winding and almost agonizing.

Negan growls as the tight pull brings him over the edge, coming with a grunt behind clenched teeth. "Fuck," he breathes out over and over through the aftershocks, his hips a little less patient now, and he fucks into Rick until he can't anymore.

Then they're lying there, shaking and sighing and trying to get the world to stop spinning. Rick cards his fingers through Negan's sweat-damp hair, enjoying the hot flare of breath against his earlobe. Negan turns his head to kiss the side of Rick's face with unhurried lips.

"That was..." Rick gives up on eloquence and thinks Negan will appreciate a joke. "Sploosh."

Negan snickers, his beard scratching Rick's shoulder. "Sploosh is fuckin' right." He shifts, sliding against the slippery wetness on Rick's stomach. "Shower?"

"You first," Rick says, sliding a hand up Negan's arm as he moves to push himself up.

"You just wanna look at my ass." Negan shakes his head and rolls his eyes like he's being objectified.

"It's not bad." Rick smirks, and he totally doesn't stare as Negan pads naked into the bathroom.

He doesn't need to ask Negan to stay, either.


	13. Chapter 13

The wedding is a small and understated union. Tara and Rosita are married by Father Gabriel at St. Sarah's Church. Lori's memorial service had been held in this church. Father Gabriel sat with Rick when it was over and rubbed his back like he was comforting a sobbing child.

Rick feels like there's something profound in marriage and death being commemorated under the same roof, but he can't imagine what it could be.

After the ceremony, the reception takes place at the town convention center, which hosts fewer conventions and more post-wedding and funeral services like this one. The interior is decorated with bright red papier-mâché roses, complementing the ones in Rosita's hair and dress, and Rick realizes Tara must have chosen the décor as a pun on Rosita's name.

On the left side of the room is the three-tiered wedding cake and the cocktail bar. The bar is tended by Sasha, who Rick recognizes from plenty of events like this. He also vaguely remembers calling an Uber for Shane once when they went drinking and seeing Sasha in the driver's seat. Her life is a confusing mystery.

Rick's about to head over there, but someone latches onto him in a tight hug. "You came!" Tara's voice squeals from behind him, and he turns in her arms to see her exuberant smile. "Thank you so much. I meant to thank you back at the church, but Rosita's family swarmed me almost immediately, so I couldn't. It was a nice swarm though."

"I wouldn't miss your big day," Rick says, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "You look beautiful."

"Oh, thanks." Tara blushes, looking down at her white gown with long lace sleeves. "Meghan picked it out." Meghan is Tara's seven-year-old niece, who is currently being corralled away from the wedding cake by her mother, Lilly. "She thought it made me look like a princess. But I kinda feel like a dork compared to Rosita."

"She still married you," Rick points out.

Tara smiles and glances away, embarrassed. "Yeah." The sparkle in her eyes says she's still amazed Rosita even likes her, and Rick is well acquainted with that kind of goofy inadequacy, of being with someone you're certain is totally out of your league. "I'm really glad you're here. Did you bring anyone?"

"Nah, today's you and Rosita's day. I'm not gonna step in on that."

"You met somebody? That's awesome! Anybody I know?"

"You two may have already met," Rick says with a knowing smile, holding up his hands to ward off any excited outbursts. "But today's not my day."

"You cannot leave me hanging like that! But I totally get it if you don't wanna talk about it. I'm really happy for you, though!"

Meghan's little voice carries through the room. "Tara, come here! I want cake!"

Tara peers behind Rick's shoulder at her niece. "Oh crap. If I don't see you again, thanks for coming!" She hurries off, and Rick smiles to himself.

At the bar, Rick orders a rum and Coke, and Sasha pours it for him with a friendly smile. "Hey, you," she says, sliding the drink over to him. "Finally comin' back to the land of the living?"

"Took me a while." Rick sips at his drink.

"At least you had the good sense to go stag. Beth Greene didn't get the memo."

"Beth? What about her?"

Sasha tips her chin toward the other side of the room. "Look at the greaseball she brought as her date."

At the buffet table, stacking his plate high with pizza slices is Daryl Dixon, the moonshiner himself. He's wearing a leather vest with a sleeveless shirt underneath, clearly misunderstanding the casual dress code. Beth is with him, wearing a sunflower yellow dress, her long blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail.

"Daryl?" Rick sputters, flabbergasted that Beth is interested in him, much less in bringing him out in public.

"You know him?"

"I collared his brother a while back. We've met."

Sasha shakes her head. "This town is a hot mess."

"You don't know the half of it," Rick chuckles.

"Hey, Rick. Think you could do me a favor?"

"Depends what it is."

"Nothing sketchy. Just get your red-headed friend to come over here."

Rick follows her line of sight and sees Abraham mingling with Rosita. He says something that makes her laugh. "You mean Abraham?"

"Yeah. He's cute. Is he single?"

Rick shrugs. "That'll be your icebreaker." He finishes the rest of his drink in a long swallow and sets the empty glass on the counter.

As Rick's making his way to Abraham, Beth catches him with a perky little, "Sheriff Grimes?" and he stops in his tracks.

"Beth, what're you doin' here?" Rick says, sounding surprised, because he's not sure how Tara or Rosita might know her.

Beth smiles. "Tara comes in almost every day for a caramel latte." Beth is a barista at the town coffee shop.

Daryl's licking pizza sauce off his fingers, his paper plate sagging with the weight of the slices. He sits in the nearest chair to enjoy his food, and Beth sits with him. Rick joins them at the small, circular plastic table. "It's good to see you here," Beth says to Rick, with a hint of the typical shyness and trepidation that comes with tiptoeing around his tragedy.

Beth was probably at college when Lori died, so Maggie must have filled her in on Rick's 'condition.'

"So you're the guy who arrested my brother," Daryl says, sort of scowling at Rick through a mouthful of pizza.

"That was actually my deputy Shane."

"You were there."

Beth places a hand on Daryl's arm. "Be kind," she says in a near whisper.

Daryl tosses the hair out of his eyes and takes another bite.

"Daryl, I didn't see you at the wedding," Rick says.

"'Cause I wasn't."

"It took a lot of convincing to get him to come here," Beth explains.

"Free food and an open bar," Daryl says mid-chew. He wipes his greasy hands on his pants and stands up. "I'mma get a drink."

Beth watches him go for a moment until Rick's voice brings her focus back. "Him? Really?"

Beth smiles and shakes her head like she's heard it all before. This cannot be her first time being questioned about this, because Daryl is maybe forty years old and doesn't look like he bathes a lot.

"Sure, he's a little rough around the edges, but he's sweet," Beth says. "He's kind, even after the world's chewed him up and spit him out."

That totally doesn't sound like anyone Rick knows. Nope. Not at all.

"If you could choose who you fell for, life would be a lot less interesting."

"How'd you meet?" Rick asks.

"Coffee," Beth says, like it's obvious. Rick can't imagine Daryl in a coffee shop; the image just won't hold. "He'd come in a lot and seem like he wanted to talk to me, so I talked first. He's shy."

Rick glances at Daryl, who's ordering a drink from Sasha. " _He's_ shy?"

Another knowing smile from Beth. "Do you always judge people by how they look?"

Rick definitely judged Negan on first glance, and wouldn't that have been the mistake of the fucking century if he hadn't bothered to look deeper. Maybe there's a similar dynamic going on here with Beth and Daryl: the goody-two-shoes meets the devilish rogue.

"What does your dad think?" Rick wonders.

"I haven't really told him yet. It doesn't seem like the right time. But it will be. And Daddy won't like him at first, of course, but he'll warm up to him. He didn't think Glenn was good enough for Maggie at first either. "

Rick thinks about that, but his thoughts are interrupted by Daryl sitting at the table with a newly-poured glass of whiskey. Rick feels compelled to say something now that he's learned a little bit more about him. "Sorry about your brother."

Daryl shakes his head. "He was a prick."

That's a total one-eighty from the way Daryl had screamed at Rick and Shane not to arrest Merle and thrown a couple punches before Abraham got him on the ground.

Rick smirks, wonders if Negan would have enjoyed himself here. He probably would've drank too much and gotten too handsy with Rick in public, so, yes, absolutely.

A little while later the cake is cut, and Rick finally gets to talk to Rosita, who greets him with a one-armed hug, the other holding a generous slice of white wedding cake. "Rick, thank you so much for coming. It really means a lot to Tara that you're here. And to me, of course, but Tara raves about you. If I didn't know better I'd be jealous." Rosita edges off a piece of cake and takes a dainty bite.

Rick has no idea how to feel about that. Why would Tara admire him? "Me, really?" Abraham is her partner; she spends way more time with him than Rick.

"She envies your strength."

Rick's about to say Abraham could probably lift a car with his bare hands before realizing what she means. Oh. "Well, she's only really seen the highlights, but thank you. Anything fun planned for the honeymoon?"

"Tara's never been to Disney World, so that's where we're going." Rosita grins. "It's a surprise."

Rick's a little in love with their love, remembering how he'd been with Lori during the first few years of their marriage, how things currently are with Negan.

"You two deserve each other," Rick says, making her smile like, well, a bride on her wedding day.

Eventually Rick makes his way to Abraham, whose huge form looks hilarious holding a piece of frilly cake. "That girl tending bar has eyes on you," Rick tells him quietly, as though sharing a secret.

Abraham chuckles and glances surreptitiously at Sasha. "Oh yeah? You dickin' around with me, Grimes?"

"I'm not that cold-hearted."

Abraham steals another glance at her. "You think I got a chance?"

"Odds are pretty good."

He deliberates this for a moment, then: "What the hell, I could use a drink."

Sasha flashes Rick a short smile as Abraham approaches her. Rick smiles back, warmed.

* * *

"Why don't you pick lunch today?" Rick offers on Monday afternoon, clapping Shane on the back and dropping a handful of takeout menus on his desk.

Abraham looks up from his phone. "You're lifting the lifetime ban?"

It's a slow day at the sheriff's station, which Rick is thankful for, because it means a) King County is keeping its proverbial shit together, and b) he doesn't have to move much, because he's sore as hell from last night's sex carnival with Negan.

Shane gives Rick a curious look, shifts his glance to Abraham. "I can only think of one reason why Rick would be so nice. He got laid." He reaches across the desk and gives Rick a playful punch to the shoulder. "Nice goin', tiger. You gotta introduce me to this chick."

"No," Rick says, his nose scrunching in disgust.

"I thought it wasn't serious with you two. You know I don't mind sloppy seconds. Or thirds."

Why does Shane's vulgarity make Rick want to punch him, but Negan's dirty mouth turns Rick on? It's probably the beard. Oh, the things that beard has witnessed. Partaken in, even.

"At least tell me she's got big tits," Shane says.

"There certainly is a broad... chestal... _area_ ," Rick fumbles. He might actually involve some awkward hand gestures, and, yeah, even he's not sure what he's supposed to be indicating there.

"What is wrong with your mouth?" Abraham wonders, sounding befuddled.

"Hey, we found the title of Rick's sex tape!"

Rick shakes his head, letting the teasing roll off his back, because Negan certainly never complains about Rick's mouth or his usage thereof.

Rick's phone rings from inside his pocket. His heart races, defying all logic, since if it were a real emergency he would have gotten a call on the station's phone and not his cell. But there's no reason for someone to be calling him in the middle of the day unless—

It's Negan.

Is he drunk and bored at work? That man really needs a hobby aside from sticking his cock into Rick.

"Hello?"

Negan's laughing already, which really bodes well for this conversation. "We need to have a talk about the steel-plated, man-sized balls your son has."

Rick groans. Oh Jesus. "What did he do?"

"He punched the ever-loving shit out of Ron Anderson is what he did. And it. Was. Awesome. Kid's face looks like he spent his free period chasing parked cars," Negan says with a bit too much glee. Rick has a feeling Negan might have let Carl get in a couple good licks before breaking up the fight.

Rick exhales a long sigh, scrubs his free hand through his hair. "Do you know why?"

"Seems like Ron knows our little secret."

God damn it. It's not like Rick seriously expected their relationship to stay hidden forever, especially with the way it's been gaining steam lately, but he wishes they could've stayed in the bubble a little while longer.

"Shit," Rick says through his teeth.

"Wow, Killjoy McBuzzfuck, take it down a notch. It's not the end of the world. You really think anybody's gonna screw with your kid now that he's turned Ron's face into hamburger?"

Rick winces at the mental image. "Is it really that bad?"

"Well, his super-hot mom isn't pressing charges, so I guess that's the 'your kid punched my kid' equivalent of not being mad."

"Did you call me just to gloat?"

"Just a bit. But also to let you know he's been suspended for three days, and I can't take him home."

"I'll be there in five minutes," Rick sighs.

* * *

Carl's right eye is black and prune-colored, and he's holding a plastic bag of ice to his battered face when Rick comes to pick him up. He's sitting one of the benches lining the halls of the school foyer. Ron's sitting across from him, icing a particularly gruesome-looking face. Jessie's waiting for Rick, her arms folded over her chest, but she doesn't look angry, just kind of disappointed.

"Rick," she says, shaking her head.

Rick almost recoils when he moves closer and gets a better look at Ron's bruises. His bottom lip is busted, his left eye bruised to all hell, and a penumbra of colorful swelling spreads from the corner of his black eye down his cheekbone. Carl, as Negan would put it, went fucking ape-shit.

"I'm really sorry this happened," Rick says to her. "I don't know what got into him."

"Ron's not talking either."

Rick's guessing that's because this whole ordeal is Ron's fault. Carl, for all his talk, is too kind-hearted to attack someone unprovoked.

"Negan says you're not pressing charges."

Jessie's expression shifts slightly at the mention of Negan. It's almost imperceptible, but Rick's trained to notice that kind of thing. "There's really no point. Both of them are dealing with losing a parent. It's hard. Sometimes they lash out."

Rick's never really thought about how Ron's handling his dad being in prison, probably because Pete Anderson was a violent dickhead, but that doesn't make Ron's grief and anger any less real.

"Thank you for your understanding," Rick says, feeling like he's the one in trouble now. "I'm sure Carl appreciates it too."

"You're a good guy, Rick. I know you didn't raise Carl to be a brute." Something in her tone sounds pointed, but Rick can't figure out what or how. Jessie grabs her purse off the bench and corrals her son. She flashes Rick a short, forced smile and escorts Ron out the door.

Rick heads over to Carl, who's staring glumly at the floor.

"So how much trouble am I in?"

"Well, you've already earned yourself a three-day suspension," Rick says.

"I mean from you."

"You wanna tell me what happened?"

"It was just a dumb fight. Ron's an asshole."

"Is this about Enid?" Rick wonders. It's the first thing that comes to mind, that all of this fighting is over a girl. "Maybe he asked her out or said something to her—"

Carl shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. "No, Dad... And you're the one who said 'if bullies give you any shit, you give it right back.'"

Rick knew that would come back to bite him in the ass. "I said it was okay to defend yourself."

"I was defending myself from Ron's stupid mouth."

Every kid is a frustrated lawyer, finding loopholes, attacking even the most minute of minutia.

But Rick picks up on the hint there. "So he said something to you."

Carl's expression tightens, like he realizes he's said too much.

"You can tell me." Rick sits next to him on the bench. "I know you think you're alone out there in the world, but you're not. I'm still here. And I'll go to bat for you."

After a moment of consideration, Carl says, "I don't wanna talk about it here."

Fair enough.

Rick drives him home, and they pick up Judith from Carol's house. While Rick's preparing Judith's afternoon snack—apple juice and a small box of animal crackers—Carl opens up. "I punched Ron 'cause he was making fun of you."

"Of me?" Rick can't imagine why, but he _knows_ , deep down he knows, but he doesn't understand how Ron knows. If Jessie saw Rick and Negan comfortable with each other at the previous game, that coupled with his earlier comment that he's seeing someone might have sparked a faint connection in her head. She could have asked Ron if Carl was getting any special treatment at practice, and Ron might have pieced it together.

Carl moves around the dining room, expelling nervous energy while he talks. "He knows you're dating a guy. I don't think he knows it's Negan. Or maybe he does and he's too scared to talk shit about Negan at practice."

"Language."

Carl sighs. "How come it's okay when Negan says it?"

"'Cause Negan's not my son." Rick knows he's being kind of a tightass, focusing on the trees instead of the forest.

"Whatever. Do you wanna know what happened or not?"

"I'm sorry. Go on."

"Anyway, Ron was being a douche, all like 'ha ha, your dad's gay, guess you are too.' 'Cause that's how that works. He said you must've gone crazy after Mom died, so I hit him."

"You hit him a lot."

"He said a lot!" Carl protests.

Rick sets Judith's snack in front of her, and she gleefully stuffs a cracker into her mouth. "You say mean things about me and Negan all the time," he points out.

"Well, yeah, but no one else is allowed to. You're my dad. And I make fun of you for dating Negan, not 'cause he's a guy."

"You defended my honor."

"Shut up, don't say it like that. That makes it sound lame," Carl sighs, probably regretting sticking up for Rick if he's just going to get good-natured teasing in return.

Rick can't be too upset with Carl. He's oddly touched that Carl would do something like this for him, but it probably didn't take much convincing for Carl to punch Ron. Still, it's sweet, in a weird sort of way.

"I know you had good intentions, but you're still not allowed to hit people for saying things you don't like," Rick says.

"That's bullshit," Carl says around an angry exhale.

Rick lets that one go. "It seems like it, but when someone says things to hurt you, they're looking for a response. Ron is angry and bitter about what happened to his dad, and from what I've heard about Pete he was an angry, bitter person too."

"Like father, like son."

Rick nods. "It's not easy to keep calm when someone's calling you names or harrassing you. They're not good people, and seeing someone who _is_ good makes them feel bad about themselves, so they try to get under your skin and drag you down to their level."

"But you said—"

"I gave you permission to defend yourself. Against a physical attack, not words. I know you know the difference."

Carl looks scolded and shamed with just a hint of adolescent petulance. "Are you mad?"

"I'm not thrilled, but I wouldn't say I'm mad."

"Negan seemed pretty thrilled."

"Oh?"

"I mean, Ron and I were at practice. Negan was right there, and he didn't stop us 'til after Ron got his stupid elbow in my face."

Rick wonders if that was intentional on Negan's part, breaking up the fight only after his sort-of step-son got hit.

"Do you think Negan heard what Ron was saying?" If he had, it'd make a lot of sense why Negan would let Carl wail on Ron for a bit before stepping in.

"Probably. But Negan didn't say anything to him. Usually he says something smartass if he hears one of us being jerks to each other."

"Maybe he wanted to see how you'd handle it," Rick says.

"Yeah..." After a moment, Carl says, "I still don't like him."

Rick figured as much.

* * *

Rick doesn't think Carl spending eight hours a day without parental supervision is the best idea, so he takes the next three days off work to keep an eye on him. Instead of letting Carl lounge around all day, Rick has them spend those three days completing projects around the house: repairing things, cleaning out drawers and closets, fixing the wobbly step on the front porch. Carl has dish and kitchen duty after meals, and is required to spend at least thirty minutes at the table with Rick and Negan.

Sometimes Negan stays the night, sometimes he doesn't. Rick tries not to read too much into the nights when he doesn't.

Friday afternoon, Rick's patrolling the outskirts of town with Shane while Shane pesters him about the mystery "woman" in his life.

"At least tell me what she looks like," Shane begs.

"So you can imagine her? That's pretty sick."

"You won't even show me a picture, so I gotta improvise."

Rick shakes his head.

"Redhead?" Shane guesses.

Rick just keeps driving.

"Blonde? … Brunette?"

"Black hair," Rick finally says, throwing Shane something to gnaw on for a bit. "And tattoos."

Shane lets out a low whistle. "Damn. I didn't know you went for the bad girls, Rick."

Rick doesn't. He prefers bad _boys_ , apparently.

His heart flutters when he thinks about Negan. Tonight is another baseball game—Carl should be a reliever—and hopefully Negan will come over and warm Rick's bed. As domestic and goofy as it sounds, Rick likes when Negan stays the night. It feels normal waking up next to someone and sharing space with another warm body in the kitchen while making the morning coffee. It's been years since Rick has had that—likewise, he thinks, for Negan too.

Ahead of them, a beat-up white sedan speeds down the road in the opposite lane. It's going at least fifteen miles over the speed limit, and Rick thinks the driver might be fleeing something (or someone), considering the car's coming from the highway leading into Atlanta.

"Look at that asshole," Shane says. "Shut him down."

Rick does, performing a possibly-illegal U-turn and getting behind the speeding car. Shane flashes the lights, gives the siren a few whoops—his favorite part, he's told Rick before—and the car rolls to a stop in the shoulder of the lane. Rick stops a few yards behind him and gets out of the car. Shane stays to run the plates.

The driver of the car is an average-looking guy in his mid-forties with greying brown hair. He flashes Rick a winning smile as he rolls down the window. "Howdy, Sheriff."

Rick's hand hovers near his side-arm. Just in case. "Any idea how fast you were going?"

"Not really."

"License and registration, please." Rick takes a glance into the backseat. There's a small dark blue luggage bag lying across the seat. Maybe more in the trunk, but Rick doesn't have probable cause to search there. And nothing in sight strikes him as suspicious. But he can't shake the feeling that something is amiss.

The man hands Rick his license before rummaging through the glove compartment.

According to his license, the man's name is Philip Blake, and he hails from the rural town of Woodbury.

"Woodbury, huh? Nice place?"

"Small town. Just like yours, I'm guessing," Blake says. He locates his registration and hands it over.

Rick scans the folded paper to ensure the names match, and holds the registration and license out for Shane to run through the computer. He doesn't want to turn away and risk this guy trying something. Shane takes the documents and heads back to the car.

"We do alright. What brings you here? Just passin' through?" Rick says.

Blake nods. "I'm goin' on a little trip."

"Where to?"

"Montgomery. Family emergency. I guess that's why I was goin' a little fast."

"Sorry to hear that." Rick kind of feels like a douche now. You could meet someone on the worst day of their life and never know it. Blake certainly looks shaken up, as though he's been delivered earth-shattering news.

Maybe he should just let the guy off with a warning. The last thing Blake needs right now is a hefty speeding fine. How would Rick have felt if he'd been driving away from the scene of Lori's wreck and some asshole cop gave him a ticket?

Rick doesn't have to decide, because Philip Blake produces a gun and shoots him point-blank in the chest.

The sound is deafening, the muzzle flash like a magnesium flare, but Rick draws his side-arm and fires off a shot that skews as the pain of the bullet tearing through his flesh hits him, and Rick's bullet whistles through Blake's right eye, the side of his face exploding like a Gallagher prop, and Shane is screaming, "What the fuck?" and Blake is shouting obscenities and pouring blood down the front of his shirt, but there's no sound anymore, then Blake is aiming his gun at Rick again—a Beretta 92—but Shane fires two shots that stop Blake cold, and Rick feels the wet-hot spread of blood across his chest before the floor falls out from underneath him.

"Rick!" Shane bellows, catching him before he hits the ground. He lays him down and presses a hand against the entry wound, his other hand scrambling for his radio. He shouts for an ambulance, but the world's getting faint and hazy, and Rick can't focus on anything, like he's being held under murky water. He feels strangely, comfortably numb, but blood's pooling too fast under Shane's sticky hands, and it's at this moment Rick realizes he's going to die. He's going to die and leave his children orphans. He's going to die and leave Negan alone.

"Rick, c'mon, you're gonna be okay," Shane's saying, begging, his sweat-and-tear-soaked face hovering above Rick's own, and Rick wants to believe him, but he can feel consciousness draining out of him, and he fights to keep his eyes open, terrified that if he closes them that's it, that's the end of him and this beautiful, fragile thing he started with Negan and Carl and Judith, and _please no, that's not how this is supposed to end, please don't let this be the end,_ but he's fading fast, and the last thing Rick hears is the wailing ambulance sirens and Shane's angry, desperate pleading before he disappears.

* * *

Negan checks his phone for the umpteenth time, pacing around the dugout five minutes before tonight's game is scheduled to start. Where the fuck is Carl? And why hasn't he heard from Rick? He glances into the stands to see if Rick has arrived yet. Nope.

What the fuck is this?

Maybe they're running late. It's probably difficult being on time with a three-year-old on your hands. But Negan feels like Rick would have texted him if that were the case. It's not like Rick to leave Negan hanging like this.

Could Carl have skipped tonight's game in protest of... what, exactly? Of Negan's place in his family? Well, he didn't do that when he found out about Rick and Negan's relationship, so why would he do it now? Maybe it's about being forced to play on the same team as Ron, the same kid who shit-talked his dad and punched him in the eye.

Negan really wishes he had more than 'I don't think Carl would do that' to justify himself, but that's all he's got right now.

Negan fires off a text to Rick: **hurry the fuck up.**

"Where the fuck is Grimes?" Negan finally asks his team.

"He left around fourth period," Noah says. "His dad got shot."

Fear pierces Negan's chest like a dart. "Don't bullshit me, kid. If he's skipping, just fucking say so."

Noah looks confused, like he can't understand why Negan would think this is a joke. But Noah isn't a troublemaker, so it's unlikely he'd tell a bold-faced lie to his coach, but it _has_ to be a lie, because nothing else makes sense.

"You didn't hear about the shooting?" Ron asks with a snide edge, like he knows exactly what Rick is to Negan.

"If you little bastards are fucking with me..." Negan looks at the stands again, searching for Carol. Carol's always here to support Carl, but she is suspiciously missing, and Negan feels something tugging at his throat, making it hard to breathe.

His phone buzzes in his hand, and hope springs in Negan's chest, hope that this text will be from Rick rearranging this huge mess into something benign.

It's from Rick, but it's not benign: _Get to harrison memorial asshole!_

That's not Rick, Negan knows immediately before his brain really processes it. That's Carl texting on Rick's phone.

There's only one reason why Carl would have Rick's phone.

Because Rick doesn't have it.

Because Rick is in the goddamn hospital and these little brats actually aren't screwing with Negan.

"Coach?" Noah says in a timid voice, but Negan doesn't hear him, just sees the word in his mouth, because everything's gone silent and ringing in his ears like a scene out of a war movie where a grenade explodes and the soldiers stagger around half-deaf.

Fuck.

He briefly considers the possibility that it's not serious, that Rick was just grazed by a bullet and needed a couple stitches and some painkillers. But Carl wouldn't be telling Negan to come to the hospital if that were the case. It's got to be serious if Carl, president of the Negan Sucks club, is demanding Negan's presence.

What the fuck is he supposed to do?

Panic and fear swirl into a horrible cocktail in Negan's veins. He looks at Noah. "How old are you?"

Noah gives him a wide-eyed, confused look. "Uh... eighteen."

"Great. You're assistant coach."

"What?"

"Mikey'll cover third." Negan slaps Noah on the shoulder. "C'mon, kid, you'll do fine. Make me proud."

As Negan moves to leave, Ron says, "You're seriously skipping out to go check on your _boyfriend_?" Negan loathes the snarky emphasis Ron puts on the word, like there's something wrong with it.

But Ron's face still bears some nasty colors from Carl's hilarious and absolutely warranted assault, so Negan just flips him off with both middle fingers as he exits the dugout.


	14. Chapter 14

Harrison Memorial Hospital is a drab four-story building with stained, pale-colored bricks, built at the bottom of a small hill. Negan parks in the half-full lot and follows Carl's texted directions to Rick's room in the ICU.

The smell of the hospital, of disinfectant and death, goes right to Negan's stomach and torments his gag reflex. Memories he'd rather forget flash in his mind's eye, and if this whole thing with Rick is just some fucked-up Groundhog Day repetition of the worst months of his life, Negan will throw up and cry and burn this whole fucking place down.

Inside the room are Carl, Judith, Carol, and Rick's deputy, who Negan remembers from his night in the drunk tank. What was his name? Steve? Shawn?

"What the hell are you doing here?" the deputy asks as Carol rushes toward Negan and wraps him in a hug of the grieving.

Negan's a little startled by her affection, but he accepts it. He risks a glance at Rick's immobile form lying in that hospital bed. His body is colonized by wires and tubes, only the beeps of the machines signifying that he's alive. Dread sinks in Negan's gut, and he holds Carol a little tighter.

"Excuse me?" Deputy Dickhead steps closer.

"Oh, put it away, Shane," Carol snaps, disentangling from the embrace. "Negan is important to Rick. He has every right to be here."

Shane scowls like this particular information distresses him. Negan notices the flecks of blood on Shane's deputy uniform. Rick's blood, he thinks in horror.

"You were at the scene?" Negan asks him.

Shane rubs his head, nods somberly. "Yeah, it was—it was bad. He lost a lot of blood. Carl donated some to get him goin'."

 _Good on you, kid_ , Negan thinks. Carl's sitting numbly by the window, holding Judith in his arms as he stares out at the dark parking lot.

Negan looks at Rick again, at the IV line descending into his arm, at the electrodes on his chest feeding signals to the heart monitor. "What the fuck happened?"

"Some prick shot him. It was just s'posed to be a traffic stop. But it turns out the guy had an outstanding warrant for robbing a liquor store in Atlanta and shooting the on-duty clerk."

An outstanding warrant. Like the guy did a great job of being a criminal. Are there levels, Negan wonders. A _fantastic_ or _splendid_ warrant? A _needs improvement_ warrant?

He's blocking, distracting himself with inanities to get through this.

Another glance at Rick. Negan can't stop. "What's the prognosis?" he asks, like he's a character in a fucking soap opera.

"They don't know when he'll wake up. Or if..."

Jesus.

"The guy who shot him..." Negan starts. "Is he..."

Shane sees where he's going with that. "I took care of him."

Negan nods, panic snaking into his chest. He tries not to think about the fact that, despite being in the same room with him, he may never actually see Rick again.

 _No. Don't go there._

He heads over to where Carl's sitting with Judith and sits in the empty space on the couch near the bed. Carl looks like he's been punched in the gut and doesn't know why. Judith is falling asleep in his arms, her eyes occasionally blinking open when she hears a voice.

"You came," Carl says, detached, as though he hadn't expected Negan to show up.

Negan almost cracks a joke like 'I always come for your dad,' because if he can't banter, quip, or insult his way through this like he does with every other watershed event he's going to lose his goddamn mind, but he holds it back and says, "Yeah, of course."

"What do you want to do about the kids?" Carol asks Negan. "I can watch Judith during the day, and I can pick up Carl from school when I get Sophia."

Negan shakes his head. "Just watch Judith while I'm at work. Everything else is on me."

Shane seems to take issue with this. "What? Why you?"

Carol shoots Shane a look that momentarily shuts him up.

"If you're so important to Rick, how come he's never mentioned you before?" Shane asks.

Negan is angry and devastated and so not in the mood to wait for the slow fucking horse to cross the finish line. "Why don't you think about it for five fucking seconds, genius."

Shane does, and his expression shifts into horror, his eyes wide with realization. "You're Lucifer?"

"Oh, so Rick did mention me," Negan says with a grin, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.

Shane shakes his head in disbelief. "No, no, this is bullshit. Rick isn't—"

"Careful how you finish that sentence, Shane," Negan warns.

Shane rubs his head again—seriously, what's with that?—and moves for the door. "I gotta get some air."

"There's air in here," Negan says, but Shane's gone before he can reply. Negan cocks an eyebrow at Carl. "Somebody's jealous," he sing-songs.

Carl scoffs and rolls his eyes.

"C'mon, kid, I'm just—I gotta make jokes or else I'll lose my mind. Cut me some slack." Negan scrubs a hand through his hair; Shane's stupid head-rubbing tic might be contagious. "How long have you been here?"

Carl shrugs.

"Five, six hours maybe," Carol guesses.

"Jesus..." Negan holds his arms out for Judith. "Give her to me. Go get somethin' to eat. Both of you."

Carl looks suspicious, like he thinks this might be some sort of trick, but eventually he hands Judith over to Negan. Judith goes easily into his arms, and Negan hefts her up so her head's resting on his shoulder. She doesn't wake up during the exchange. Negan kind of envies her; he doesn't know how the fuck he's going to sleep after all this.

Carl stands up and pulls out a colorful bag from behind his side of the couch. "If Judith needs anything, it should be in here," he says, setting the bag in the space he'd been before taking a phone—Rick's phone, Negan can tell by the case—out of his pocket. Carol puts her arm around his shoulders, and Carl starts typing something.

"Do you want us to bring you anything?" Carol asks.

"I'm fine and dandy," Negan says, feeling anything but.

She nods, hearing his underlying grief, and she and Carl leave the room together.

Negan sighs and settles into the couch, cradling Judith's sleeping form. "Looks like it's just you and me, kid." He watches the slow drip of the IV, the steady pulse of the heart monitor, the rise and fall of Rick's chest.

"C'mon, Rick," Negan murmurs. "Don't you dare leave us like this. If you die, I swear to God I'll kill you."

Five minutes later, a nurse clad in blue scrubs enters the room. Her long, dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail. One glimpse at her face, and Negan feels the pow in his chest. Something about her reminds him of Lucille, and, goddamn it, universe, he can only handle mourning one love at a time.

She smiles at Negan, at the way Judith's sleeping against his chest. "You and Rick are pretty close, huh?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"I doubt she'd curl up on just anyone," she says, changing out the IV drip.

Perceptive.

"How do you know Rick?" Negan asks, studying her profile, and now he sees all the ways her features differ from Lucille's: a broader nose, smaller eyes, fuller lips. But the initial sight had shaken him, like seeing a vague shape out of the corner of your eye.

"I'm married to one of his coworkers."

"For your sake I hope it's not Shane."

She laughs like she genuinely understands the joke. "No, it's Officer Chambler."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Really?" She finishes her task and turns to him, hands on her hips. According to her tag, her name is Rosita. "'Cause she remembers bringing you in for a drunken barfight. Said you and Rick talked like you knew each other."

She? Interesting. At least Negan won't have to hide his relationship with Rick here. "She must've described me pretty well."

"'Rugged smart-ass with a leather jacket.'"

Negan chuckles. "You got me." The levity fades almost immediately, and Negan sighs. "Be honest: what do you think his chances are?"

Rosita looks at Rick, pained creases on her brow. "We don't know. He could come out of the coma in days or weeks or years. Or not at all. The bullet did a lot of internal damage. His body has to heal from that."

Shit, the emotional wringer might never let up. At least with Lucille there had been a certainty that she was going to die, just a matter of when. But Rick could stay in this suspended, dehumanized state, all his processes co-opted by machinery for the rest of his natural life.

That little flicker of hope, never quite burning out.

Damn.

"I wish there was more to tell you," Rosita says, tenderly straightening the blankets on the bed. "How's Carl doing?"

"About as good as you can imagine." Poor kid might lose both parents in the span of less than five years. And Carl's only fifteen. And, shit, what about Judith? Losing her mother and father before she even enters pre-school.

Rosita's eyes are slightly red, and it occurs to Negan that she's grieving for Rick, too.

Ten minutes after Rosita leaves, a young couple enters the room. The guy is tall and lean with dark, messy hair, and thin wisps of facial hair sprouting over his upper lip and across his chin. The girl is visibly pregnant, her brown hair chopped short. Her eyes are puffy and red, and when she sees Rick she lets out a tiny groan and squeezes her husband's hand. "Oh, Rick... God..." She lifts her free hand to her face, wiping her tear-stained cheeks as she moves closer to the bed.

Her husband sees Rick, but takes greater notice of the leather-clad stranger holding Judith like she's his own. "Uh, hi? Sorry, I don't think we've met. I'm Glenn. This is Maggie."

"Negan."

"Carl's baseball coach?"

"Yeah," Negan says, curious how Glenn might know this.

"Oh, he, uh, he talks about you a lot." Glenn forces up a short, tight smile, which tells Negan that 'talks about' is code for 'bitches about.'

Maggie squeezes Rick's unmoving hand and murmurs something soft before sniffling and raising her head to look at Negan. A heart-breaking smile crosses her face at the sight of Judith asleep in Negan's arms. "Rick would be really happy that you're here."

And just like that, Maggie seems to detect the intensity of the relationship between Rick and Negan, like she knows intuitively that Negan isn't just a friend, that the last thing Rick texted him was that goofy winking emoji blowing a kiss, and Negan feels his heart tumble in his chest.

"Where's Carl?" she asks.

"I sent him and Carol down to the cafeteria. They needed a break."

Maggie sniffles again and crosses the room. She and Glenn move for the couch, and Negan repositions so his legs aren't taking up the remaining space. "I wish we didn't have to meet like this," Maggie says, sitting beside him. Glenn joins her and puts his arm around her shoulders, protective and comforting.

"You and me both," Negan sighs.

"What happened to him?"

"Some piece of human garbage shot him."

In a dark place Negan rarely goes, he considered asking Rick to retire, or at least get a desk job at the sheriff's station, something that doesn't put him in the line of danger every day. Because Negan can't lose anyone else. He's not built for it. He lost Lucille and that shattered him, fucking destroyed him, but he was able to slowly piece himself back together out of the remaining fragments. Some pieces of him are gone forever, little chips of glass broken off and irretrievable, but he's okay, decent enough for Rick to find appealing, at least.

To lose Rick, to be shattered again... Negan doesn't think he'll survive it.

Some people say an experience loses its edge once you've gone through it. Face your fears and you won't be so scared the next time. Negan says that's bullshit. He knows exactly what's in store for him in the event Rick dies here, and he wants no cocksucking goddamn part of it, fuck you very much. With Lucille, he'd been blissfully ignorant, half of him reassured that it would be easier since he had time to say goodbye, that her death was a slow affair rather than a sudden snap of fate's fingers.

He'd never been so wrong in his life.

"Did they get the guy?" Maggie asks.

Negan nods.

"Good."

Eventually Carol and Carl return to the room, and the five of them talk and trade stilted conversation until Carl's nodding off against Carol's shoulder.

"C'mon, kid, let's get you home," Negan says.

Carl shakes his head, his shaggy hair swaying. "No. I'm fine. I wanna stay. It's not like there's school tomorrow. And what if Dad wakes up? Someone needs to be here with him."

Carol takes Carl's hand. "Someone will be. I promise."

Carl still doesn't seem convinced, and Negan totally gets it, because a selfish part of him wants to just set up camp here as long as it takes for Rick to wake up, but included in his deepening bond with Rick is the implicit promise that Negan will treat Judith and Carl like they're his own, and Negan will be damned if he fucks that up.

"Look, I promised your dad I'd take care of you. Now, I'm a man of my word, and I'm sure Rick wouldn't appreciate it if I kept you and your sister here 'til he wakes up. So get your butt to the car."

Carl exhales an angry sigh and grabs Judith's bag. "Fine. But there's no way I'm ever gonna call you Dad."

"That's fine. I prefer 'Your Majesty' anyway."

Negan drives them home in the Impala. Judith wakes up briefly, but the steady rumble of the car lulls her back to sleep, and she's out like a light when they park in front of the house. Negan carefully picks her up, gets her inside, tucks her into bed with the utmost care. He watches her sleep for a moment, envious of her ability to appear untouched by any of this. She has to understand, on some level, what's going on; maybe she does and Negan just wasn't around for it. She might have screamed and cried herself into exhaustion, and in the morning Negan's in for a lot of questions he can't answer.

He has a family now, but this sure as hell wasn't the way he had in mind.

Carl has locked himself in his room, which Negan's not too bothered by, because he doesn't know if he'd be any comfort right now. Carl probably needs to distract himself with violent video games or cute cat videos, or even just texting a friend about the shit-show his life has become.

Negan rinses off in Rick's shower, uses Rick's soaps and shampoo, puts on one of Rick's t-shirts and a pair of boxers and sweatpants.

He falls into Rick's bed and starts to cry.

You can only be strong for so long.

* * *

Judith starts crying around three a.m. Carl is already there when Negan arrives, rocking her in his arms and shushing her into calmness. Or at least trying to, because she's still sobbing and blubbering into his t-shirt.

"Go back to bed, kid," Negan says, rubbing his eyes before holding out his arms for Judith. "I got this."

Carl glares at him, but the harsh edges have been sanded off, like he begrudgingly accepts that Negan is part of the family now, or at least until the shit-typhoon of Rick's coma has passed. He hands Judith over and watches as she doesn't stop crying when transferred to Negan.

"You got this, huh?" Carl says, giving Negan a sassy look.

"She just wants her daddy," Negan says, rubbing her hitching back. "Isn't that right? You want your daddy?"

Judith looks up at him, her arms locked around his neck. "Where's Daddy?"

"At the hospital, doll. Remember? He's not feeling good, so he has to stay there and get better. But we can go visit him in the morning, okay?"

"You promise?"

"'Course I do. I miss your daddy too."

Judith's loud sobs have devolved into quiet sniffles, but with the way her lower lip's quivering she's anything but soothed. She can sense that his tone is off, that he's trying too hard to seem like everything's normal.

Carl's still standing in the room, his arms folded over his chest as he observes Negan's technique.

"Go back to sleep, darlin'," Negan says, moving to put her back into her bed, but Judith cries, "No," and clutches harder around his neck.

Negan hasn't read any of those parental instruction manuals—he'd been saving that for when Lucille got pregnant—so he's kind of in the dark about what to do here. "The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner we can go see Daddy."

Her grip doesn't loosen, and she's making this distressed whining noise into his shoulder.

Negan looks at Carl as though to say, 'Got any bright ideas, genius?'

"She had trouble sleeping after Mom died. Dad would let her sleep in his bed. I guess it calmed her down," Carl says.

That makes sense. Lori's scent had probably still been in the room at that point, and Rick's scent definitely has a strong presence there now.

"You think that'll work here?"

Carl shrugs. "You can try. But make sure you put pillows up so she doesn't roll out."

Negan wants to snap back that he's not a total idiot, but he actually hadn't thought of that. Oops.

He carries Judith into the master bedroom, sets up a pillow barricade, and tosses a few onto the floor in case she rolls off anyway. Being in this room seems to calm her down a little, and as Negan tucks her under the covers he's stricken by a paralyzing wave of terror, because he's responsible for this fragile little person—and for Carl too—and the thought of anything happening to either of them scares him beyond belief.

How does Rick leave them for even a millisecond?

Negan keeps watch over her until her eyes close and she falls into sleep, her breaths evening out into a calm rise and fall.

He lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. Sleep does not come easily, but exhaustion settles into his bones by four-thirty and sweeps him away.


	15. Chapter 15

Rick, Negan learns, is a popular guy, if the number of visitors he gets is any indication. Negan, Judith, and Carl arrive at the hospital bright and early Saturday morning, but two of Rick's fellow officers are already there, as though standing guard over his immobile form.

As Negan makes his way into the room, he recognizes the officers as the ones who'd brought him in that fateful night. The ginger giant gives a little chuckle when he sees Negan; the girl—Officer Chambler, Negan's guessing—smiles at the sight of him and Rick's kids together.

"Well, lookie here," Ginger says, though he doesn't barricade the room with his massive frame, just lets Negan inside. "How'd you end up on daycare duty?"

"Comes with the job," Negan says. There's a flower bouquet on the table near Rick's bed, and Negan moves closer to examine it. The card reads: _Get well soon ~ Love, Glenn and Maggie._

"And what job is that?"

Negan thinks about saying something snarky and immature, but this really isn't the time or place. It's a shame Rick wanted to keep their relationship under wraps for a while, because this situation has forced it into the light, Rick's intentions be damned.

"Rick and I were seeing each other," Negan says, trying to sound casual about it, but the fact that he's stepped in and taken over guardianship of Rick's kids proves the contrary.

"No shit?" Ginger laughs.

Chambler gives her partner a look.

"I mean, hey, I'm not judgin', I just didn't know Rick swung that way."

Judith squirms in Negan's arms, and Carl takes her from him when Negan hands her over. Carl brings her over to the bed where Rick's lying and starts to talk to her.

Ginger holds out his hand. "A friend of Rick's is a friend of mine. Name's Abraham."

"Negan."

They shake hands. Abraham has a strong grip, as though he could toss Negan around the room like a ragdoll.

Since they're doing handshakes, Chambler offers hers as well. "Hi, I'm Tara. Rosita told me she met you last night."

When he shakes her hand, Negan notices her fingernails are painted red with white polka dots. "Good to see you again. Sober, this time."

Tara tries a smile, but it's weak, because this isn't a happy meeting. She glances at Carl and Judith, looks at Negan. "You're taking care of them?"

"Doin' my best."

"That's really sweet of you. How long were you and Rick..."

"Three weeks?" Negan guesses. He's lost track of time since his and Rick's orbits collided.

"Wow, you guys got pretty close, huh?"

"Yeah, well, at our age, no sense in wastin' too much time, right?" Even as the words leave his mouth, Negan feels like a liar, because he's wasted too much time already. If he'd known Rick would make it this easy to love him, Negan wouldn't have been so afraid of it.

He risks a peek at Carl and Judith gathered at Rick's side and tries not to let his heart crumble into a million pieces. Negan turns his head back to Tara, scrubs a hand over his mouth. "Any news?"

"No," Tara says sadly.

Abraham makes a gruff noise in his throat. "Don't you worry about Rick. If he knows he's in a coma, he's pretty pissed off about it. He'll pull through. He's one tough sumbitch."

Morgan shows up around noon, bearing sandwiches for the hungry mourners. "Carol thought you might get hungry," he says. "And from what she tells me, the cafeteria food leaves a lot to be desired."

Tara and Abraham left a little while ago for their shifts, so it's just the Grimes family and Morgan here in this bleached-white hospital room.

"Don't you have a diner to run?" Negan wonders, though he's not going to turn down tasty sandwiches.

"Olivia can handle things for a while."

Carl leaves the room, digging through his pockets for loose change.

"How's Carol doing?" Negan says to Morgan.

Morgan sits beside him on the couch. "She's got the kids today. Took 'em to the park. Duane's got some game on his phone that makes you go outside to play it."

A dark part of Negan is envious of Morgan's carefree relationship, that he gets to share his life with Carol and isn't drowning in an ocean of fear and uncertainty, that the person Morgan loves isn't lying in a hospital bed.

Morgan catches Negan looking at Rick. "If anybody can make it through this, it's Rick Grimes."

There's no one else here but them, and Judith is happily munching on a grilled cheese, oblivious to their conversation, so Negan risks a rare moment of vulnerability and says, "I've been through something like this before. My wife Lucille. She had cancer. I had to watch her go over months and months. Rick may be strong, but I'm not. Not anymore."

Morgan looks at him like he's staring into Negan's soul. Negan almost instinctively backs away. "You don't have a choice. You've got those kids to take care of."

And Negan wants to. It would be an honor to raise the last remaining pieces of Rick Grimes. But he knows he's got zero authority here. Rick's parents may be dead and buried, but Lori's folks might have a problem with the result of Rick's three-week-old sexual identity crisis raising his children. Rick had mentioned that they moved to Florida a year ago, but Carl might still contact them, as he seems to be notifying everyone in Rick's phone about his father's condition.

Carl returns with sodas—and water for Judith—and Negan pretends not to be surprised when Carl hands him a can of Coke. Despite Carl's protests to the contrary, he's warming to Negan.

Not ten minutes later, the door swings open and Shane steps inside. He looks at Rick with a tender, despaired expression. Then he sees Negan, and his face morphs into malice. "Negan? You got a minute?"

Negan really doesn't want to step away from the best damn Reuben he's ever had, but if he says no Shane might throw him out the window. So he makes a show of standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. "Exactly a minute."

Not even a chuckle.

But Negan's pretty sure what this is about, so he follows Shane into the empty stairwell. It's cold and dimly-lit and feels like something out of Resident Evil.

Shane folds his arms over his chest. "Lucille Dwyer. Dwight Carr. Those names ring any bells?"

Can Negan call it or what? "So you read my file. Stellar fucking police work. You also know being brought in for questioning and being charged aren't the same thing, right? It's important to me that you know that."

Shane dodges that conversational dart entirely. He moves closer, getting right up in Negan's face. "First Dwight, then Lucille, and now Rick. You think that's all a coincidence?"

Blood boils beneath Negan's skin. "How the fucking shit does your brain work? You were at the scene; you know I didn't shoot Rick, and if I hired the guy to do it, you would'a traced it down already. Don't be a fucking idiot."

Shane rubs his head. Again. God, it's a tic. And Negan can't stop waiting for the next one. "All I know is: death follows you, Negan. He got inside you back in Michigan, and he followed you here."

"You wanna phrase that a little better?" Negan's stalling, building a wall of jokes to protect himself from the accusation.

"I'm just sayin'. You're the common denominator in all this."

"Maybe I'm just an unlucky bastard. Why can't it just be that?"

"I don't want you around Rick's kids," Shane says.

The words hit Negan like a punch in the chest. Is this guy for real? "On what grounds? My criminal record is squeaky fuckin' clean. No arrests. No charges. I don't think a reasonable judge will accept 'bad vibes, bro' as evidence."

"Look at the tapes! Death nukes everything around you! Once is bad luck. Twice is a hell of a coincidence, but three? That's evil. Plain and simple."

"Jesus, his body ain't even cold yet and you're already countin' him dead," Negan growls. "Have some goddamn hope."

"Don't talk to me about hope." Shane's fist tighten at his sides. "I was the one who was there for Rick when Lori died. I helped him with the kids and dragged him out of bed when he didn't feel like getting up. I've been his partner for years, and you think you can just walk right in after a couple weeks and take my place? If you're so damn important to him, how come he kept you a secret all this time?"

"Maybe he thought you'd be an asshole about it. And, what do you know, he was right!"

"No, I wouldn't," Shane says, scowling sadly, like Negan's dug too deep and uncovered something no one's allowed to see, and Negan fucking gets it now, and, holy shit, this is kind of amazing.

"You got a big gay crush on ol' Rick, don't you?" Negan says through a laugh. "Not that I blame you one goddamn bit, but, c'mon, jealousy? Really? Shane, you're better than this."

"Shut your fucking mouth," Shane snarls. "You're way outta line."

"No, I think I'm perfectly in line. You never told him? Fuck, you know that 'pining from afar' shit only works in the movies." Negan's ignoring that he and Rick just ended up together, that neither of them actually gave voice to their feelings to get this relationship started. But Shane doesn't have to know that, so Negan can play the superiority card.

Negan snaps his fingers as though realizing something. "No, wait, I know why you didn't tell him. 'Cause it'd destroy you if he turned you down."

Shane grabs the front of Negan's shirt in his fists and pulls him closer. "Shut. Up."

"Are we gonna kiss or fight? 'Cause I'm getting' some real mixed signals here."

Shane shoves him away with a groan of disgust, doing that goddamn headrubbing thing as he paces the tiny floor. "Do you ever stop talking?"

"Rick's never had a problem with my mouth." My God, Negan's brain shouts at him, just shut up for five seconds before you get your perfect teeth punched in.

Shane looks incensed, and Negan knows he has to talk him down before this comes to blows. "Alright, look, I know this has to suck some serious dick for you, but, like it or not, Rick chose me. He asked me to move in with him." Negan raises his hands as though warding off an attack, which is fairly likely with Shane. "Hold your fuckin' horses. I'm only telling you that to paint a picture. Rick was serious about this. At the risk of having a chick-flick moment here, he wanted me to be part of his family. And that means taking care of his kids like they're my own damn flesh and blood, which, as a matter of fucking fact, I am going to do. The only way you're gonna stop me is by killing me, and I don't think you really wanna do that. 'Cause when Rick wakes up"-when, not if—"he'll be fucking _pissed_."

"How do I know you're not bullshitting me?"

"Guess you'll just have to ask Rick. Oh wait. Can't."

"You think this is funny?"

"I think you're gonna have to try a lot harder if you want me to break my promise to Rick. I'm a man of my word."

The anger in Shane's eyes seems to dissipate, replaced by something akin to respect, or at least begrudging acceptance of Negan's role. "Rick has some real questionable taste in men."

* * *

"Rick, I know you can hear me."

It's around two in the afternoon, and Carl has taken Judith for a walk around the hospital to ease her boredom. Which leaves Negan alone in the room with Rick. Rick's not much for conversation, being comatose and all, so Negan fills the silence with soft words at Rick's bedside.

"Wake your ass up, okay? I need you here. Your kids are already driving me fuckin' bonkers. Carl treats me like I'm the goddamn antichrist, and Judith is too young to know what's goin' on. I can't keep tellin' her you're just sleeping. 'Cause pretty soon she'll wonder why Prince Charming doesn't come around and wake you up with a kiss. And, shit, I ain't him."

A beautiful woman—Rick seems to attract them in droves—comes through the door. She's dressed in red and black, her long dreads hanging freely over her shoulders. She sees Rick lying there, and her stern expression softens momentarily before she focuses on Negan.

"I don't believe we've met," she says, moving closer to Rick and taking his hand in her own.

"We have not."

She looks around the room. "Where are Carl and Judith?"

"Carl took his sister for a little stroll. She's a bit restless, but patience isn't a three-year-old's best quality."

A hint of a smile twitches on the woman's lips. "What's your name?"

"Negan."

She tilts her head, observing him there at Rick's bedside. "You two are close, aren't you?"

"Beautiful _and_ perceptive," Negan says with a half-assed grin.

"Don't try to flatter me." She gives Rick's hand a little squeeze before tenderly placing it back onto the bed.

"How do you know Rick?" Negan asks.

"I'm a defense attorney."

"So you work on opposite sides of the law, huh?"

"Not entirely. But we made friends through his wife."

"Carl told you to come here, didn't he?"

She nods. "He's a good kid. He deserves better than this."

Negan isn't sure she's talking about him or the situation, but he says, "Yeah, he does."

Her gaze drops down to Rick again, to the man who brought practically the whole town together over his bed. "I'm Michonne, by the way. It's nice to meet the guy Rick took off his ring for."

Negan's a little stunned she was able to read him so easily. "How'd you figure that out?"

"You look like you're going through hell. I've seen that look on a lot of sorry faces."

"And how many of them were innocent?"

Michonne gives him a curious look. "Are you?"

"Far from it." As inane as it sounded at the time, Negan's starting to give too much credence to Shane's accusation.

 _Death follows you._

Would Rick be lying in this bed if Negan hadn't barged into his life? Impossible to tell. But he can't shake the feeling his influence inadvertently caused Rick to drop his guard in that fateful moment. Irrational, but there you go.

"Does Rick know?" Michonne asks.

"I told him everything."

And Rick shouldn't have stayed.

* * *

It only occurs to Negan after he's brought the kids home that Rick's house doesn't have very much in the way of food. He does the best he can, cobbling together enough ingredients for a decent soup. Carl and Negan don't talk to each other, but they do answer Judith's constant inquiries about Rick and why he won't wake up. It's the worst dining experience he's ever had—worse than the quiet, tension-filled nights when Lucille was sick and neither of them would address it, just buried their fears underneath stilted compliments about the food; Negan knows there are many more nights like this in store.

Judith won't sleep in her own bed, so Negan has no choice but to let her sleep in the master bedroom. There's probably something in the parenting books that says you're not supposed to do that, but, shit, the poor kid is only three and might end up losing her father too. If she wants comfort, she ought to get it.

Negan doesn't sleep well. Each time he wakes up, he makes sure Judith is still there and still breathing.

* * *

The next morning, Carol shows up while they're eating cereal and buttered toast.

"Why don't I take the kids today?" she offers, placing a gentle hand on Negan's elbow. "You look like you could use a break."

Negan shakes his head. "I'm fine and dandy. And what about you?"

Carol smiles weakly at his concern. "I'm headed there anyway. Sophia wants to see Rick. Figured I'd take the little ones off your hands for a bit."

Negan glances over his shoulder at the dining table where Carl and Judith are seated. He doesn't want to leave them if it's not necessary, but he has to go grocery shopping and stop back at his place for a suitcase of clothes—he feels strange wearing Rick's clothes—and it would be a nice breather to be alone—

Carol squeezes his hand, bringing Negan's attention back to her. "It's okay. We'll get through this, but we have to do it together."

"I guess I could... Look, I'm just gonna go to the store and pick up some stuff for dinner—"

"You're going shopping?" Carl says, his tone unreadable.

"Yeah."

"I'm going with you. Otherwise you'll get the wrong stuff. You don't even know what we like."

That's... not the reaction Negan was expecting. He's a little blown away by Carl's willingness to volunteer. "You don't have to—It's more important to be there for your dad. Just write me a list—"

"It's also important to spend time with him," Carol reminds Negan in a soft voice.

Seeing as Negan is the only male parental figure in Carl's life now—Jeez, what a sorry fucking situation for the kid—Carl probably wants to bond with him.

"Okay, kid, if you wanna come along, be my guest."

* * *

After Carol has taken Judith and Sophia to see Rick, Negan and Carl slide into the Impala. It's quiet for a moment until Negan asks, "So is there any place special you guys go? Somethin' tells me your dad ain't keen on dropping an entire paycheck at Whole Foods."

Carl shakes his head. "Just the Publix outside of town. It's cheap and fast."

"Hey, just like me," Negan chuckles. Carl is not amused, although Negan hasn't been able to make him laugh much anyway.

He gets them on the road, and he's tempted to fuss with the radio to disrupt the silence suffocating them, but he has kids now and shouldn't give in to the temptations of distracted driving.

Carl, as if reading Negan's mind, reaches out to turn the dial.

"Don't fuck with my stations, kid," Negan says, keeping his eyes on the road.

"It's Carl." He says it with so much determination it takes Negan aback. "If you wanna be part of our family, fine. But you gotta call me by my name. No more of this 'kid' crap."

Wow. Okay, fair enough. "Alright, _Carl_ , don't fuck with my stations."

Carl does not. He does, however, press the preset buttons until he finds a station actually playing music. Judging by his expression, it's probably not something he enjoys.

"We're making a little pit-stop first," Negan tells him, since they're heading in the opposite direction of the grocery store. "Unless you want me to keep wearin' your dad's clothes."

"So you're moving in." Carl's voice has an edge to it, like Negan has somehow arranged this terrible clusterfuck of events solely for that purpose.

"Just 'til your dad wakes up. Then he can kick me out."

"He won't make you leave. He wants you to live with us."

"I know. He asked me to move in, but I told him to slow his goddamn roll."

"Why? 'Cause you're just screwing around with him?"

"'Cause he'd been drinkin', and I thought he'd regret it in the morning."

Carl is quiet, but he looks like he hadn't been expecting that answer.

They arrive at Negan's apartment. Carl looks around when they get inside, taking in the sad state of Negan's bachelorhood. "You have a ping pong table?" he asks, incredulous.

"Indeedy-fuckin'-do."

Carl has to notice the stacks of opened mail and magazines on said table, but he doesn't mention it.

"Make yourself at home," Negan says. "I'm just gonna grab a few things."

Carl just stands there in the living room, observing his surroundings. Negan ducks down the short hallway into the bedroom. He sees the bed before turning to the closet, and he's not thinking about the last time he and Rick were on that bed, how Rick felt around him and against him, how afterwards they were tangled up in each other and Negan thought that was just the start of something new and wonderful.

Fucking hell.

Negan throws open the closet door. He's being optimistic here, bringing only a small suitcase's worth of clothes like he's going on a weekend business trip, guided by his foolish belief that Rick will come out of his coma within the week. Because this is not the way Rick motherfucking Grimes is going to die.

When he's finished, he finds Carl in the living room scrutinizing the various knick-knacks on the fireplace mantle. His attention seems to be drawn to the small Death Star replica. "See somethin' you like?"

Carl turns around at the sound of Negan's voice. "I didn't know you liked Star Wars."

"Everyone likes Star Wars. I was about your age when the first one came out." Negan moves closer. "Check this shit out." He picks up the Death Star and toggles a switch on its base. It lights up bright red, reflecting a sinister glow off Negan's leather jacket.

"Cool," Carl says, impressed.

Negan holds the lamp out for him. "You want it? Might as well put something worth lookin' at in your room."

Carl lifts an eyebrow, his gaze flicking back and forth from the toy to Negan's face, like he thinks this is some sort of trap. "You've never even seen my room."

"My point still stands. But if you're gonna be a smartass—" Negan switches off the light and moves to put it back on the mantle, but Carl stops him.

"Wait, no. I want it."

Negan smirks and gives him the Death Star.

"Thanks." Carl turns it over in his hands for a moment before noticing the suitcase at Negan's feet. "That's all you're bringing?"

"I know how to do laundry. And if I need to, I can come back and get more of my shit. C'mon, let's go."

They load up the trunk of the Impala and head for the grocery store.

"So how'd you get into baseball anyway?" Negan asks, attempting a conversation. "Too scrawny to make it on the football team?"

"Yeah," Carl mumbles after a moment, folding his arms over his chest and slumping a little in the leather seat. "We used to go to Braves games sometimes when Mom was alive. I think she enjoyed it more than Dad. She'd watch games on TV all the time, even when they were for other teams."

This is an important moment, Negan realizes, because he remembers Carl getting pissy when Rick told him about Lori, like she was some Grimes family secret. He has been initiated, accepted into their clan.

"Your mom sounds like a real great lady."

"Yeah, she was."

It's interesting Rick never told Negan that Lori was a baseball fan, but maybe he didn't want Negan to feel like a surrogate, like they're only together because of how he reminds Rick of what he lost.

"What about you?" Carl asks in a rare moment of giving a shit about Negan.

Negan rubs his scruffy chin. "My dad was a hard-ass, and I wanted him to be proud of me. Like you, I wasn't cut out for football either."

"Was he? Proud of you?"

Negan considers that. "He once called me 'the little mistake.'"

Carl doesn't say anything, but Negan hopes the kid's thanking his lucky stars for Rick's parenting.

Inside the store, everything is bright and cheery and totally fucking wrong. There are pastel decorations strung above the aisles in anticipation of the upcoming Easter holiday, but celebration is the last thing on Negan's mind. Negan really hopes he doesn't see anyone he knows here, because if they haven't visited Rick already they won't know why Negan is suddenly Carl's temporary guardian, and he'd rather not have Rick wake up to learn the entire damn state knows about their relationship.

Carl leads him through the store, tossing items into the cart presumably at random, but there seems to be a method to his madness. Mostly sweet and salty things: potato chips, cookies, cheese crackers. They're in the pasta aisle when Negan asks Carl, "So do you just eat snacks, or..."

"I thought you were gonna make stuff."

"It'd be nice to know what you like."

Carl shrugs. "Hot Pockets, frozen pizzas—"

Negan cuts him off with a, "Nope."

"You're a dick."

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna make you eat kale or any of that rabbit food, but I can't in good conscience let you eat like a broke college student."

"Fine," Carl sighs, as though this is some great inconvenience. "But I don't like fish."

"I can work with that. What about Judith? I got lucky the last few times, but I don't think she's gonna be so agreeable for long."

"She mostly eats chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese. Or sandwiches, like grilled cheese or peanut butter and jelly. Easy stuff."

Negan should have made a list. Lucille had always been the one to plan ahead like that. After she got too sick to go herself, she'd give Negan a grocery list with the items arranged by section so he wouldn't get lost or waste time backtracking. And once she died, he never gave enough of a shit about himself to make plans. But he has kids now, and regardless of his shitty credentials they deserve someone who knows what the fuck he's doing. This is the point where he's supposed to excavate some untapped well of maturity and discipline that will make him worthy of Rick, of Lucille, of these two sad children in desperate need of someone to hold them together.

Negan takes his phone from his pocket and types out a short list with the things Carl mentioned.

When they reach the alcohol—that's not Negan's fault, it's right next to the cheese and refrigerated rolls of biscuits and cookie dough—Negan momentarily considers buying some, because, holy hell, could he use a drink. How nice would it be to fall asleep to a whisky lullabye and not be kept awake by worries of whether Rick will survive?

But he thinks about Carl and Judith, about how Rick had disappeared into a bottle after Lori died, and Negan doesn't want to be the shitty, drunk dad he had himself. As a parent you're supposed to do better. You can't take the easy way out, no matter how tempting. If Negan cheats, even a little, he's sure Shane will find out somehow and take the kids away from him.

At least then Negan won't have anything stopping him from drowning in booze.

He turns away from the glass case when he hears Carl puts something in the cart. A roll of cookie dough has joined the ranks, nestled between boxes of macaroni and slabs of frozen meat.

"Are you gonna make those or eat it out of the tube?"

Carl hesitates, like he doesn't know what the right answer is.

"'Cause if you're eatin' it outta the tube, sign me the fuck up."

Carl manages a tiny smile. Negan's considering it progress.

Afterwards, Negan drives them home, sipping an energy drink to keep him awake and alert. Stimulants, not depressants. He's sad enough already. He's parked on the street curbside of Rick's inviting home. Carol isn't back yet, judging from her vacant driveway. Negan stares at the house and tries not to think about how goddamn lonely it is without Rick.

"Hey," Carl says, snapping him out of his reverie. "Are we going inside?"

Negan considers this for a moment, tapping his fingers on the leather-bound steering wheel. "Your dad never taught you to drive?"

Carl shakes his head. "He was afraid something would happen to me."

Not an unreasonable fear, given the proclivity for teen drivers to multi-task while behind the wheel. That, coupled with losing Lori in a car accident—proving even a seasoned driver can still fall victim to someone else's poor judgment—must have scared Rick shitless.

But Carl is fifteen, and it's clearly a point of contention between him and his father and embarrassment among his peers. And it's not like Rick ever told Negan he didn't want Carl driving, so here's a chance for Negan to treat Carl like the adult which he is slowly becoming.

Negan turns so he's facing Carl. "Wanna take her for a spin?"

Carl's eyes go impossibly wide. "Your car? Are you serious?"

"Why not?"

"Dad would be pissed if he knew," Carl says, looking uncomfortable that he has to choose between his own natural desire to learn and respecting his comatose father's wishes.

"He's just afraid of losing you. But fear makes people pretty damn stupid. Besides, if he doesn't wake up—" Negan swallows against the way his throat tightens. "Somebody's gotta teach you. C'mon, just a drive around the block."

Carl succumbs to his teenage instincts. They get out of the car and swap seats. Carl fusses with the mirrors and pulls the seat forward. Negan draws in his legs as the amount of legroom diminishes almost instantly.

"Seatbelt," Negan reminds him, and Carl sighs around an, "I was gonna," before buckling up.

Carl gets them moving in a cautious roll down the street, and Negan realizes he's placed his life and general bodily safety in the hands of a fifteen-year-old. But he trusts Carl not to stomp the gas and kill them both. At least, not on purpose. But how much damage could the kid do here? Maybe knock over a garbage can? Hit a mailbox?

"You could probably go a little faster," Negan says, because they're rolling along at about one mile an hour, and, really, he could walk faster than this. He never suspected Carl would be an overly cautious driver. But his father's the sheriff, and his mother died in a vehicular accident, so it makes sense the kid would be wary of speeding.

Carl adds a bit of gas, just enough so they're under the speed limit, and halfway down the street Carl rests an arm on the door.

"Both hands on the wheel."

Carl does as he's told, looking like he's internally grumbling about Negan's safety precautions.

They reach a stop sign, and Carl knows enough not to slam the brakes, instead a steady press that rolls them to a stop. He must have taken cues from watching Rick.

"Your dad told me you got a girlfriend," Negan says. "Doesn't sound like he likes her too much."

Carl looks left and right then left again before they start moving again. It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, and all the cars are either out on the city roads or parked in driveways. "He said it was okay to go out with her. I guess he felt like a hypocrite saying no."

Negan works that one out in his head. "He means well. Even when he makes some total fuckin' bonehead decisions. You and your sister are all he's got."

"And you," Carl says, by which Negan is oddly touched.

"I wouldn't put myself on that list just yet." Rick never dated anyone before Negan, so it's very likely he's just conflating friendship feelings for romantic feelings, or at least treating Negan like a test-drive before the real thing eventually comes along.

But that hasn't stopped Negan from falling for him like an idiot.

Carl doesn't wreck or even momentarily endanger them, which Negan is grateful for—and actually kind of impressed by. He eases the Impala curbside in front of Rick's house, his only mistake forgetting to put the car in park. But he remembers immediately when it inches forward after his foot leaves the brake. It's not like they hit anything, though, so Negan's counting it in the win column.

"Not too fuckin' shabby," Negan says while they're unloading the groceries from the trunk. "Your dad would be proud."

"He'd be pissed."

"Well, that's why we're not gonna tell him 'til you get your permit."

"Are you seriously gonna teach me to drive?" Carl sounds simultaneously excited and saddened by this, because it should be something a father does for his son, but this is a battlefield promotion, and the position has been handed down to Negan instead.

"Until your dad does, yeah."

Carl fights a smile, his hair hiding his face as he leans forward and grabs more bags out of the trunk.


	16. Chapter 16

Amazingly, they make it through the week. Negan distracts himself during the day with work, then the evenings consist of hour-long hospital visits, then cooking dinner, offering to help Carl with homework (Carl still refuses to actually accept help from Negan), getting Judith ready for bed and eventually carrying her into the main bedroom when she refuses to sleep in her own. It's routine, and Negan can get used to that, though he wishes like hell Rick were here.

Negan prays sometimes silent prayers at Rick's bedside, looking to a god he stopped believing in years ago for one last miracle. It never comes, not yet, but that doesn't stop him from trying.

Occasionally Carol will bake a casserole or a pie for the Grimes family, overestimating Negan's male helplessness. He's grateful for the effort, but he hates having her do more for him than necessary.

"It's no trouble at all," Carol has said in response to Negan's many polite protests. "You're family."

So Negan has given up trying to dissuade her generosity.

Friday night means another baseball game, and Negan—in his potentially transparent attempts to win Carl over—has put Carl in as a relief pitcher in the sixth. Negan can't stop himself from glancing at the stands and searching for Rick. It's a reflex left over from happier days.

Carl throws a few garbage pitches that the batters make contact with, but the outfield keeps any extra runs from going on the board. Negan can see Carl's head isn't in the game—how could it be, with his father in the hospital?—but he wants to give the kid a chance to channel that anger into a few extra miles per hour on his fastball.

A new batter for the Wolves steps up in the top of the seventh, and Carl throws the ball, and Negan sees the trajectory, knows exactly where it's going to land, and the batter does too, but he's too slow to dodge a ball that fast. The ball strikes the kid in the back as he's turning away. He drops to the ground, and his team trainer and coach rush toward their fallen umpire throws up his hands to call time, but his voice is like a drop of water in an ocean, an ocean of boos and angry snarls from the Wolves as they charge the mound. The rest of the Saviors leap off the bench and abandon their positions, eager for a fight.

Carter, the plate umpire, yells, "Grimes! You're gone," jerking his thumb to eject Carl from the game.

Oh, fuck this guy.

Negan jogs over to home plate. "Don't eject him, Carter, you fuckstick! It was an accident!"

Carter is a typical balding suburban dad with a forehead shinier than a polished fender. His brow crinkles in disgust. "Accident? He threw right at him!"

"It slipped out of his hand. Christ, cut him a break. His father's in a coma."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but rules are rules."

"Bullshit." There's no rule stating a pitcher must be ejected after hitting a batter, only if there's been a prior warning. "You just wanna be a pain in my ass."

"No, that's Rick's job," Carter says, snide and smug. "Or is it the other way around?"

Oh, Negan wants to slug him right in his stupid mouth. But Negan can't afford to be ejected too, and while it might be temporarily satisfying to knock Carter's teeth in or tell him to eat a dick, things like verbal or physical smackdowns only work in the movies. In the real world, life is full of moments where you just have to swallow down the bullshit.

Negan is also Carl and Judith's temporary guardian, and Rick would probably be upset to learn Negan punched the plate ump over a stupid disparaging comment.

Like that song from the movie Judith has made him watch at least three times this week: let it go.

Negan turns away and moves toward Carl. "C'mon." He guides him back to the dugout, where Negan sends out a new pitcher and sits Carl on the bench. Carl's staring at his glove, at the sandy, dirty floor. Basically everywhere but Negan or his teammates. Negan wants to reassure him but decides now isn't the time.

"You put Ben in?" Ron says, incredulous. "We're screwed."

God, Negan is so not in the fucking mood for this pointless bullshit. He wants to grab this kid and remind him that the people you love can just fucking die one day without warning, but he knows he wouldn't have listened when he was Ron's age either.

"So what? Winning isn't everything," Negan says instead.

"That's not what you said at the beginning of the year."

"Well, shit happens. People change."

When he's driving Carl and Judith home that night, Negan says, "Don't beat yourself up. I know it was an accident. And even if it wasn't, you're going through some shit. You're entitled to a mulligan every now and then."

Carl's gazing out the window at the sleepy town passing by. "I just... I want all this to be over. I want Dad to wake up and everything back the way it was before..."

"Before me?"

"Before Mom died. I'm sick of losing people. I don't wanna lose Dad too."

Negan opens his mouth to reassure him, to say, "you won't," but that's a promise he can't keep. "You and me both," he says instead.

* * *

Judith is restless. Not even sleeping in the master bedroom soothes her, and Negan guesses Rick's scent has slowly evaporated from the sheets, replaced with Negan's own, which probably isn't as comforting. She cries and cries, so much so that Carl peers into the bedroom to see what the fuss is about.

He finds Negan slowly pacing around the room with Judith in his arms, gently rubbing her back and letting her soak his t-shirt with her tears.

"She okay?" Carl asks.

"Oh yeah, she's awesome," Negan says, dry and droll. He hefts her up a bit against his shoulder, readjusting her weight. "Never better. You got any ideas? I'm one step away from givin' her cold medicine."

Carl shrugs. "She's never gone through anything like this before. With Mom... She was too young."

"I want Daddy," Judith whines, pounding her tiny fists against Negan's chest.

"I know, kiddo. So do I," Negan murmurs.

Before he'd been exiled, his neighbors in Hell had warned him about parenthood, recalling sleepless nights filled with exhaustion and half-blind stumbling to the nursery every hour. But this is worse, because there's no easy fix for Judith's distress. There's no diaper to change, no fever to temper, no food to soothe an empty stomach. Negan is pretty much useless here, powerless, and it hurts like a motherfucker.

He walks around the room, hoping the movement might lull her into some level of calm. "Y'know," Negan starts, his voice soft, "my dad would'a told you to keep those tears in your eyes where they belong, but, hell, you go right ahead and cry. At least one of us can."

He hums 'Stairway to Heaven' as Judith blubbers into his shoulder, and Negan can tell she's losing steam.

"Holy shit, why is that working?" Carl whispers.

"Everybody loves Zeppelin," Negan murmurs before going back to the song. Judith's grip on his t-shirt has slackened, her sobs reduced to quiet sniffles. "If I put you back in bed, you gonna be a big girl about it?" he says, gently placing her back in the bed among the pillow fort.

Judith seems to be fast asleep, and Negan tucks her back in. Carl watches this with disbelief. There's an almost impressed expression on his face when Negan looks at him. Carl huffs a breath.

"What?"

"Nothing, just... You're pretty good with her."

"What can I say? Chicks dig me." Negan smirks, heading for the door, and Carl lets him pass. He heads downstairs, because he's awake now at four thirty in the damn morning. Carl's quiet footsteps sound on the stairs behind him.

"How come you never had kids?"

Negan stops at the foot of the staircase.

"I mean, you're old, right? And you used to be married before. Can you like... not?" Carl's nose scrunches up at even the vaguest reference to Negan's dick.

Negan sighs. He should probably just lie and go along with Carl's theory that he's got equipment problems, because maybe it would make Carl laugh and be something they could joke about and it wouldn't hurt.

But he doesn't.

"I was afraid I'd turn out like my dad."

Negan heads for the refrigerator, as though putting distance between himself and his words. He digs out the tube of cookie dough for a post-midnight snack. Carl follows him, as though drawn in like a magnet to the tragedy of Negan's life. Negan wonders if Rick felt the same way too.

"But you're right," Negan says, pulling up a chair at the table and sitting. "I had plenty of chances. Lucille pushed. I kept pushing back. Said it wasn't the right time yet. First she was too young. I thought we should live a little before getting tied down with a kid. Then I wanted us both to have stable careers. By that time... I couldn't put it off any longer. But then she got sick, and we never had the chance again. Biggest regret of my life."

His biggest regret should be bashing Dwight's head in, but, nah, he stands by that one. Funny when he thinks about it.

Carl says nothing, just sits in an empty chair beside him. He reaches for the cookie dough and breaks off a piece. "Was it easier? Her getting sick instead of just... disappearing."

"Death ain't easy. Anyone who says you get used to it is full of shit." Negan takes a piece from the roll and pops it into his mouth. He ponders an actual answer to Carl's question. Would he have preferred Rick to die in the shooting instead of stretching out his potential demise?

"I think the worst part," he finally says, "is that little flicker of hope. It's like living with a gun to your head. At first you don't want the trigger pulled. You pray and hope and beg, but after weeks, months, sometimes years, you just want it over already. And through it all you have to watch someone you love suffer. That's the last way you want to remember them, but remember you fucking will."

"I didn't get to say goodbye to Mom," Carl says after a moment, his voice a little shaky. "I don't even remember what the last thing I said to her was. And Dad... if he dies, he'll die thinking I hate him."

"That's a load of shit. It's me you hate, not him. And he's one of the good ones, so he loves you unconditionally, even when you're a shithead. It's in the rulebook."

"Do you think he can hear us? I mean, if you talk to him..."

"I'm banking on it. I tell him all sorts of sappy shit he'd make fun of me for if he was awake. I'm kinda hoping I say something so goddamn stupid and saccharine he sits right up and says, 'are you fucking serious?'"

Carl huffs a tiny laugh. "Did you and Dad get together 'cause you both lost your wives?"

"I think that had something to do with it. I like him 'cause he makes me laugh, and he doesn't treat me like I'm a walking time bomb. When I was on the road, after Lucille died... A lot of the women I ran into were like vampires for my grief. Like they fed on it, wanted to patch me up and fix me. Rick never treated me like that. He didn't think I was helpless 'cause I lost somebody." Negan looks at Carl. "Plus he's got an amazing ass."

Carl groans. "Can you go five seconds without being gross?"

"Nope."

* * *

"C'mon, Rick, if you're trying to dump my sorry ass, you're gonna have to be a little more forward than the silent treatment. Just wake up and tell me to fuck off, and I'll be on my merry way. But don't leave me hanging like this. Don't leave your kids wondering if you're ever gonna wake up. Judith's askin' too many questions: 'Why won't Daddy wake up?' 'Is Daddy gonna leave like Mama did?' And I don't know what to tell her. I just want her to be a kid a little while longer... I can't screw this up, Rick. For you or them. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

* * *

Monday night. The start of week three. Two entire weeks have passed since Rick was shot. Negan still feels numb.

It's time for Judith's bath, but Negan can't find her. Mildly panicked, he checks Carl's room, where he's relieved to see her and Carl on the bed. Carl's lying on his stomach, his curtain of hair obscuring his face, while Judith sits beside him. "It's okay," she tells him in a soft voice, rubbing his back.

"What's going on?" Negan asks from inside the doorway.

Judith looks over at Negan and shushes him, a finger dramatically pressed to her lips. "Carl is sad."

"Tell me somethin' I don't know, sweetheart." Negan strolls over to the bed. "It's time for your bath. Why don't you pick out some PJs and come get me when the water's ready, okay?"

Judith flicks a glance at Carl, as though unwilling to leave him.

"I'll take care of your brother. Don't worry."

This seems to assuage her, and she hops off the bed and toddles out the door.

Negan drops onto the empty space on the bed. "So what's going on with you?"

"Nothing," Carl mumbles, his speech muffled by the way his face is pressed into the mattress. "Just leave me alone."

"Oh yeah, you sound awesome. But I wouldn't be doin' my job if I didn't ask again."

"It's not your job," Carl says. "You're not my dad."

"Damn, son, that's cold. And I'm the best you've got at the moment, so you're just gonna have to talk to me."

"No."

"Fine, bottle everything up. That's real healthy."

Carl sighs, pushing himself up, and Negan catches a glimpse of Carl's red-rimmed, dewey eyes.

"Something happen with your girlfriend?" Negan guesses.

Carl rolls his eyes.

"Alright, look, you're gonna have to give me somethin' here. You already got plenty of shit to deal with. If we can fix this—"

"Well, you can't. I'm just stupid."

Negan cocks an eyebrow. "Not the word I'd use to describe you. But go on."

Carl gives Negan a worried look. "You won't get mad?"

"Should I?"

"It's about school."

"Did you get in another fight?"

"No..."

"Then I probably won't get mad. Try me."

Carl sighs, perhaps gathering the courage needed to explain. "I'm failing algebra, and my stupid teacher says I can't make it up."

"Hardly sounds like the end of the world."

"You don't know Mr. Kenseth."

Negan laughs. "I absolutely do, and he's a dick and a half." Mr. Kenseth is more commonly known around the school faculty as 'fucking Gregory' due to his obnoxious attitude and unwelcome flirtation around the female teachers.

"So you see my problem."

"I can be pretty persuasive."

Judith appears in the doorway. "Bath's ready!" she announces before scampering down the hall again.

"Right behind you, kiddo," Negan calls. He stands up and pushes a hand through Carl's shaggy hair. "It'll be okay. We'll work something out."

* * *

Negan meets with Gregory the next afternoon in his classroom between periods. The walls are covered in helpful infographics featuring equations and pie charts and all sorts of math shit Negan promptly forgot after high school.

Gregory looks up from his phone as Negan steps into the room. "Oh... Negan. What can I do for you?" There's a nasty edge to his voice that makes Negan bristle.

Negan stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, takes a casual stroll through the maze of empty desks toward Gregory's own. "Just outta curiosity, is Carl Grimes one of your students?"

"Sounds like you already know the answer."

Enough bullshitting. Straight for the knockout punch. Negan approaches Gregory's desk, looming over him. He hopes the way the light's shining in from the open windows makes him look more intimidating. "Well, he's one of mine too, and word is he's failing your class. Thing is, I need Carl on the Saviors, and I think the kid deserves a break, considering his only parent is currently comatose. You heard about Rick Grimes, right? Shot on duty, condition a giant question mark?"

Gregory sets his phone down and folds his hands on the desk. He does this very slowly, as though to indicate he will not be rushed. "I have. I've also heard some things about you. Namely, you and Rick engaging in an inappropriate relationship."

Negan snorts a laugh, levers back to an upright position. "'Inappropriate'? That's an awful big word for you, Gregory. Let me guess: you picked it up at one of those sexual harrassment seminars you're required to attend?"

If Gregory is bothered by Negan's insult he doesn't show it. "You're only going to bat for Carl Grimes because you're screwing his father."

"Wow! Those are some bold fuckin' words for a guy wearing khakis!"

"You're not denying it."

"'Cause it doesn't fucking matter. I'm asking you to do the kid a favor. Just give him the bare minimum passing grade. Maybe you've never been in his shoes, but it's pretty goddamn hard to concentrate on school when someone you love might be dying."

Gregory's phone buzzes on the desk, and Negan takes a quick glance. There's a message onscreen with two emojis at the end: the kiss-blowing face and the eggplant.

Negan is very familiar with that eggplant emoji; Lucille used to teasingly use it as a penis joke, because there's no other goddamn reason for its existence.

Why would someone text Gregory those flirtatious emojis? Negan highly doubts Gregory's wife texts like a twenty-something bar girl. What cruel fucking world is this where asshat Gregory is getting laid while Negan's mourning the second love of his life?

"Be that as it may, and I'm deeply sorry about Rick, but that doesn't change my obligation," Gregory says.

"Which is what?" Being an asshole?

"Teaching these kids. Maybe you've never been in my shoes, but a real teacher's livelihood is determined by standardized tests. If my students perform poorly on the math section, it reflects on me."

Negan's fists tighten at his sides, fury flooding his veins. Gregory's getting under his skin, and at any other time it would be amusing, like watching a kitten swat at a huge dog, but the uncertainty of Rick's condition has knocked Negan's emotions askew.

 _Breathe. Focus. Don't be an idiot. For Carl's sake._

"What about extra credit?" Negan asks. "Is there anything he can do?"

"Unfortunately, it's too late in the grading period for extra credit to make much of a difference. He hasn't been turning in assignments. All those zeros pile up."

Behind them, a student enters the classroom, setting down his bags and settling into a desk. "Uh, Mr. Kenseth? Can you help me with question fifteen on last night's homework?" He's fumbling with his textbook, crumpled papers sticking out of the pages.

"Sure, Mike." Gregory moves to get up from his desk, says, "I think we're done here," to Negan before tending to Mike.

Well then.

Gregory's phone buzzes again, a reminder of the unread message. Negan glances over his shoulder. Gregory is immersed in helping Mike with a math problem. So Negan casually moves around the corner of the desk for a better peek at the onscreen message.

It's really fairly simple, just the word 'naughty' with two flirty emojis, but it breaks this conundrum wide open, because there's no way Gregory's married to a chick named Crystal who texts like this.

Negan runs his tongue over his teeth. Carl might have a fighting chance after all.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Carl asks on the way home from school. Negan's taking them on a bit of a detour after his conversation with Gregory sparked an idea in his head. He's already texted Carol to let her know they'll be a little late in picking up Judith. In response, Carol sent a picture of Judith eagerly helping her make cookies.

"We are on a mission," Negan explains. "Reconnaissance, if you will. And I know your dad probably wouldn't approve, but Uncle Negan ain't afraid to get his hands dirty."

"Now I'm even more worried." Carl gives him a look. "And don't call _yourself_ Uncle Negan. It's weird when you do it."

"I'll call myself Daddy if you want—"

"No," Carl sort of shouts, drawing out the word in one long stretch. "Never do that. Ever. And we're not talking anymore." He turns up the music playing in the car's tape deck—Physical Graffiti, side two—to drown out any more disturbing things Negan might say.

Negan's following Gregory's rust-colored Oldsmobile, hidden behind a few other cars. Tailing someone becomes more difficult when your vehicle is easily recognizable, but it's not like Negan has another car to borrow, so he'll have to stay hidden. Gregory's probably not expecting anyone to follow him, so at least Negan has the element of surprise on his side.

Once they start heading toward Atlanta, Carl jerks down the stereo volume. "Seriously, where are we going?"

"I think I found a way to get you a passing grade in math."

Carl looks incredulous, like he can't understand how this is possible or why Negan would give a shit about his grades.

"And your teacher's a huge bag of dicks, so I don't feel bad about threatening to ruin his life," Negan continues. Carl's still curiously quiet. "I asked him if he'd cut you some slack. He pretty much told me to go fuck myself, but from the texts on his phone I think he's cheating on his wife. Or at least heading in that direction."

Carl's eyes go as wide as dinner plates.

"So I figure we follow him around, see if he meets with this chick, and if he does we take pictures. Boom. Blackmail."

"Blackmail's illegal."

Negan sighs. "Well, thank you, Dudley Do-Right, for enlightening me. I guess we'll just go home and say toodle-fucking-loo to your passing math grade—"

"Wait!" Carl reaches out to stop him, even though Negan made no move to actually turn the car around. "I didn't say not to. I just..."

"Look, it's on me, okay? Your dad won't find out, and if somethin' goes south, I'll take the heat."

Carl eyes Negan with suspicion. "Why? Is this all a show for Dad? So if he wakes up he'll see what a great guy you are?"

Carl's words pierce through Negan's heart like a bullet. _If he wakes up._ Not when. Going on three weeks and the kid's already losing faith.

Negan shakes his head, both answering Carl's question and trying to will away the unpleasant thought. "Until your dad says otherwise, you and your sister are my family. And I go balls to the wall for my family."

"Please don't talk about us and your balls in the same sentence."

After a couple minutes, Gregory pulls off the highway and into the parking lot of a run-down strip club. The club isn't very busy at four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, and Negan doesn't want to risk being spotted this early in his plan, so he backs into a spot at a nearby pizza parlor. He could go for a pie, but considering the place is across the street from a strip club, the food probably isn't worth the indigestion.

"We're off to a great start," Negan says, snapping a photo of Gregory heading toward the club entrance.

Carl rests his head against his fist, his arm propped on the side of the passenger door. "How do you know he's cheating?"

"I took a quick look at a text on his phone. It was from some chick named Crystal—pretty sure that's not his wife—and she sent him that winky kissing face and an eggplant emoji."

Carl's nose crinkles in disgust. "Ew."

"My fuckin' thought exactly."

"Like you haven't sent that to Dad."

"Son, I do not mince words when it comes to flirtin' with Rick Grimes. And when I'm graphic I know he's blushing redder than a damn tomato. You carry his phone around. See for yourself."

"I really try to avoid that."

"If you change your mind, you're welcome to use any of my smooth fuckin' lines on your girlfriend. How's that goin', by the way?"

Carl shrugs. "Fine, I guess. We talk a lot ever since Dad..."

"Why don't you bring her over sometime?

Carl doesn't answer. Shame sinks like a stone in Negan's stomach.

"You're embarrassed of me, huh?"

Carl makes a face, and Negan can tell he's hit a sore spot. "She's heard people talking, so she knows you live with us now. But it's one thing for her to hear about it, and another for her to see how screwed up my life is, y'know?"

"It's not that screwed up. For one, your dad didn't even want you dating this girl, where here I am offering to let her come over for dinner. Two, we're about to have the solution to your little math problem." Negan winks. "See what I did there?"

"Oh my God. Dad jokes _already_?"

"Three, it ain't half bad living with your baseball coach when you need one-on-one pointers. And four, Rick didn't want you driving, which I, on the other hand, am pleased as punch to teach you." Negan spreads his hands. "It's all about finding the silver lining."

"So what was the silver lining when Lucille died?" Carl asks, intended to wound, but Negan's ready for it.

"Meetin' your dad." Negan grins a wolfish smile and turns his focus forward. "Thrust and parry, kid."

They sit there for about half an hour. Carl discovers a small bag of potato chips in the glove box and snacks on them while playing with his phone. Negan isn't sure what he's going to find here. It's unlikely Gregory's going to walk out with this Crystal, assuming she's a dancer in the club. But he has a gut feeling Mrs. Kenseth is the kind of woman who would lose her shit if she knew her husband set foot in a place like this. So maybe just photos of Gregory entering and leaving will be enough.

Negan considers doing something drastic, like going inside the club and snapping a picture or two of Gregory stuffing dollar bills into a stripper's G-string. But he can't leave Carl alone, and he sure as hell can't take him inside. So that's out.

Negan's phone rings from inside the pocket of his jacket. He digs it out, checks the caller ID. Carol. His heart rate speeds up as he answers, his brain imagining all the horrible possibilities. "Carol, hey. Is something wrong?"

"Well, yes and no. Judith's a little needy. She misses you. And Carl."

Negan considers how this must seem to Judith. First her mother goes away, then her father, and now her brother and sort-of uncle haven't come to pick her up. Hello, abandonment issues.

"Oh, shit. Put her on. I'll talk to her."

There's a bit of fumbling on the other end, Carol's muffled voice, then Judith's coming in loud and clear. "Uncle Negan, did you forget me?"

Pain strikes Negan in the chest like a fist. "I could never forget you, darlin'. I'm helping Carl right now, but I promise I'll come get you, okay? Aunt Carol will take good care of you. She told me you made cookies. Can you save some for me?"

"Maybe," Judith says, as though withholding a secret.

"Aw, you ate them all, didn't you?"

Judith laughs.

"I don't blame you one bit, doll. You hold tight. Carl and I will be there real soon, okay?"

"Okay. I love you, Uncle Negan."

Negan feels something warm spreading through his chest. "I love you too, kiddo."

"Bye-bye!"

Carol's voice comes through the line after a moment. "She's sweet, isn't she?"

"The sweetest. I should probably stop fucking around and get over there, huh?"

"If you're doing something for Carl, that's important too," Carol reminds him. "I've got this covered. Do what you need to do."

"Where on earth would I be without you, Carol?"

She chuckles. "Up a creek, I'm sure."

"Judith doesn't like it when we're gone too long," Carl says after Negan hangs up. He sounds dejected, possibly blaming himself for this.

"I think we've got enough for now, right? I confront him tomorrow, tell him I caught him going here, and he'll probably fold. I get a real 'pussy' vibe from him, and not the good kind."

Negan's interrupted by the sight of Gregory leaving the club, and he's not alone. There's a young, perky blonde leaving with him, and they're holding hands, and Negan actually says, "Are you shitting me" out loud, because there's no way this girl could genuinely like Gregory as a person. He's terrible.

Carl follows Negan's line of sight. "Oh, gross."

"Jackpot." Negan starts the engine and rolls them into the club's parking lot. He hands Carl his phone as he parks alongside Gregory's shitmobile. Carl snaps a couple pictures, including one of Gregory's terrified face as he nears his car and sees the Impala there.

"He sees us," Carl warns.

"Good. We can get this over with."

Negan slides out of the car and approaches the couple. Crystal looks embarrassed yet slightly intrigued by the sight of Negan.

"Pissin' our pants yet?" Negan says with an edge of glee, because Gregory's expression is a thing to be treasured.

"What the hell is this?" There's fear in Gregory's voice, fear Negan sniffs out like a bloodhound.

"I oughta be asking you the same damn question." Negan turns to Crystal, gives her an appraising smile. "Are you the lovely Mrs. Kenseth?" Before giving her a chance to answer, he says, "'Course not. I don't see a ring on your finger, and something tells me a pretty girl like you wouldn't marry a schlub like this." He jerks his thumb toward Gregory. "But you would bang him or date him or whatever the hell's going on here, which confuses the everloving shit outta me, but that's not the point."

Gregory stands there trembling like a chihuahua with a full bladder.

Negan turns back to Gregory. "The jig is up, fuckface. We caught you."

"'We'?"

Negan glances over his shoulder at the Impala. "Carl!"

Carl rolls down the window, and Gregory's stone-white face turns even paler at the sight of him.

"We got pictures," Negan continues, "and we're going to ruin your whole fucking world." He holds up a finger to stop Gregory's whiny protest. "Unless you give me what I want."

"This is blackmail," Gregory whimpers, and if the San Andreas quaked like his voice they'd be calling for an evacuation.

"You are absolutely right!" Negan says with an enthusiastic swing of his arm. "Give the man a gold star!"

"Please don't do this. I'll pass Carl, just don't tell my wife—"

"Hell no! I already gave you that chance and you made the _wrong_ decision, didn't you? The price has gone up. Now you're gonna give Carl a nice, fat B-plus, or I will send these pictures to your wife, your grandma, your kids, your pastor. The list goes on. Now I know that is a mighty big, nasty pill for you to swallow. But swallow it you most certainly motherfucking will."

Gregory swallows—the power of suggestion—and Negan sees the lump in his throat. "How do I know you're not lying? What's stopping you from sending the pictures anyway?"

"Because I don't give a shit about you, Gregory. All the fucks I have to give are reserved for members of my family. Once Carl's grades are in, the pictures go poof"—Negan makes a demonstrative motion with his hand—"and you and Crystal can ride off into the sunset happily ever after."

Crystal's eyes bulge. "How do you know my name?"

Negan just smirks at her, all his focus on Gregory, daring him to try something.

But just as Negan predicted, Gregory is a spineless weasel. He bows his head and says, "Alright, you win. Carl gets a B-plus on his next report card."

Negan claps his hands. "See? That wasn't so hard, now was it? Today was a productive damn day!" He looks at Crystal. "I don't even know you, but, honey, you could do so much better. He just rolled right over. Didn't even try to stand up to me. What kind of a man is that?"

Negan laughs and turns away. "Pleasure doin' business with you, Gregory." He walks back to the Impala, whistling a jaunty tune.

Negan slides into the driver's seat. Carl's expression is unreadable, but there's a modicum of wonder there, almost admiration. But Negan sees the fear too.

"You must think I'm a lunatic," Negan says with a huff of laughter.

"No one's ever done something like that for me."

"I told you, you're family. And nobody fucks with my family." Negan turns over the engine. "Now let's go get Judith and pay your dad a visit."

* * *

"After Lucille died, I was a mess. I didn't know where to go or what to do. So I just started driving. For almost a year I went all across the country, searching for something to fill the void. Then I came here, and now I know I was just driving around all that time looking for you. Rick, you gotta come back. I need you. I love you. I know it doesn't mean much, and I wish I'd said it when you were around to hear it, but there it is. Too little too fucking late, huh?"


	17. Chapter 17

Rick has a new visitor on Saturday, and she looks stunned to see him lying in the middle of all sorts of tubes and wires and machinery. Then she looks astonished to see Negan sitting on the couch and holding a tired Judith in his arms.

"Oh, hi," the woman—girl, really, because she doesn't look a day over twenty-five—says, offering an awkward smile. "You must be... a friend of Rick's."

"You could say that," Negan chuckles.

Carl, who's sitting in a chair by the window, sighs at the poor joke.

She offers Negan her hand, and they shake. "Denise Cloyd."

"How'd you know Rick?"

"I'm not really at liberty to discuss that. But mostly I'm here for Carl."

Carl looks up from his phone. "Me?"

Denise turns to him. "It might be helpful to have someone to talk to. I'm a psychiatrist. Since you're underage I can't give you any medication, but I'm a great listener, if you ever want to, y'know, talk about how you're feeling." She looks at Negan. "You too, of course. I mean, obviously you and Rick were close."

"Well, thanks but no thanks. I don't really like to dump my shit on anybody," Negan says with a shrug.

Denise gives him a tight smile, like she's heard this before. "Therapy can be really helpful for some, but I understand if you're uncomfortable with it. Carl, what about you?"

Carl shrugs. "There's not really anything to talk about. Dad's pretty much dead already."

Carl's cynicism hits Negan like a wet slap that momentarily stuns him. "Kid, you got plenty to talk about if that's what you think."

"He's been out for almost a month," Carl says. "If he was gonna wake up, he would have by now."

"Don't say shit like that around your sister."

Carl exhales a long sigh. "I'm just saying. Everybody dies. I'll be fine if he does."

"Okay, good talk, Carl," Negan says, rolling his eyes.

Yeah, the kid totally doesn't need a therapist or anything. He's perfectly well-adjusted.

"Carl, why don't we take a walk and you can tell me about how you're feeling?" Denise offers. "No judgment."

Negan expects Carl to say no, but the kid surprises him by saying, "Alright," and following Denise out the door. Between sitting here bored out of his skull and taking a walk with someone who wants to listen to what's on his mind, it probably wasn't much of a choice.

Negan sighs, suddenly exhausted. When Lucille was sick, Negan fought the good fight and kept hope alive, perhaps out of naivete, perhaps out of a genuine belief that tough-as-nails Lucille would kick cancer right in the ass. But he knew the end was coming, and when it did it snuffed out that bright-eyed idealism, buried it six feet under, and Negan's been trying to channel it here for the kids' sake. But Carl's words have reminded Negan how things like this turn out for him, ending in bitter tears and anger and feeling foolish for believing in miracles, and the zombified corpse of his idealism barely has legs to stand on anymore.

How much longer can Negan keep up the hopeful facade before he just... cracks?

"Please," Negan murmurs, begging any higher power for a sign. "Carl and Judith deserve better than this. They deserve their father. I'll never be half the man Rick is, and I know I've made some royal fuck-ups, but please don't punish these kids for my mistakes. I don't even know if you exist, but if you're out there and you hear me... Shit..."

* * *

"I thought you weren't a fan of talking about your problems."

"Yeah, well, first time for everything, right?"

Negan and Denise stand outside of the hospital while Negan lights a cigarette. He doesn't smoke often, but he thinks he's entitled to a puff or two considering the circumstances. He'd only done it to take the edge off, picking up the habit during Lucille's bad days, then continuing up until Rick lit up his sky and there was no edge anymore.

Shane showed up a little while ago, so Negan left the kids in his care while he talks to Denise.

"So I'm guessing you were Rick's shrink," Negan says around a mouthful of smoke. "Is this gonna be a betrayal of confidences or some shit?"

"I think I can make an exception. You're a friend in need."

"You don't even know me."

"I can tell you're very important to Rick, judging by how comfortable his kids are with you," Denise says.

"Well, where do I start? Am I s'posed to tell you how Daddy never hugged me or said he was proud of me?"

"If you want."

"What I want is for Rick to wake up." Negan takes another long pull off the cigarette. "Don't get me wrong, I love the little rugrats, but I can't raise his kids by myself. If Rick was here, well, it wouldn't be a problem. He could tell me when I'm being an asshole or not being enough of one. But I don't trust myself not to fuck things up on my own."

"You never had children?"

Negan shakes his head. "My wife wanted to, but she died before we could..."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Denise doesn't mention how bad Negan's luck is for him to keep losing people he loves, but Negan feels the words hovering around them like an electric charge.

"Rick and I were only seeing each other about three weeks," Negan says. "If this keeps up, he'll be in a coma longer than we were ever dating." A humorless laugh rattles out of his throat, and he stares at the skeleton of ash at the tip of his cigarette.

"Do you think it's possible you're trying so hard to raise his kids because you want him to be proud of you?"

"Absolutely fuckin' possible. In my head, I have this idea that he'll wake up and see that I've kept them alive and out of trouble, and maybe Carl actually likes me a little, and, yeah, Rick'll be proud of me. Fuck, I deserve it."

Part of Negan thinks he's a selfish dickhead for thinking that, for saying it out loud, because why should anyone be proud of him? It's not like he's ever done anything worth recognition.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to be appreciated," Denise tells him, but it rings hollow. Not her fault, just years of mental conditioning to the contrary. "And I think Rick would be really glad to know you're taking care of Carl and Judith."

"Yeah, maybe." Negan puts the cigarette to his lips again and inhales. "Some days it drives me fuckin' crazy, doin' all this myself, being responsible for them. That's a little fucked up, huh?"

"Not really," Denise says. "Raising children can be overwhelming. And you're facing a lot of challenges: dealing with a teen and a toddler, Carl's bad attitude, and being sort of thrown into this without any preparation. It doesn't make you a bad person to feel like you're out of your element."

Negan considers this. After returning from the war, his own father refused mental health care—"therapy's for pussies, kid"—and repressed every emotion that wasn't terrible rage. After Dad left, Mom tried to repair the damage and reprogram Negan's brain into less self-destructive thinking. She hadn't been too late, but she wasn't able to completely rewire him, either.

"I wanna be good for them," Negan says after a moment. "Better than my dad was." He watches a car drive by the hospital until it's out of sight. "I put off having kids with Lucille 'cause I was afraid I'd turn out like him."

"At least you're concerned about it. That should count for something." Denise looks at him. "But you're not really giving Rick enough credit. I told Carl this, but my mom remarried when I was about his age. And of course I didn't like the guy, 'cause I didn't understand why Mom and Dad weren't together anymore, and I thought she was replacing Dad. But she told me he might have his flaws, but she wouldn't date him if she didn't think he'd be a good father. I think that's what Rick sees in you."

Negan breathes out smoke trails through his nose, letting her words sink in.

"You're a coach at the high school, right? So Rick's seen you in action, so to speak. He knows you're good with kids. And Carl might think you're a hard-ass, but teenagers tend to think that about everyone who doesn't just let them do what they want."

Negan never talked about things like this with Lucille. She was young and fiery and gorgeous, and he feared if he exposed too much of his anxieties or weaknesses that she'd find someone better suited for her.

His first wife had been domineering and cruel, and any armchair psychologist could tell she was a surrogate for the approval he never got from dear ol' Dad. So after Paula crushed him under her heel and rubbed him into the dirt, Negan was too afraid to potentially cause discord with Lucille, who was sweet and caring and much too good for him.

"Why do you think you fell for Rick?" Denise asks him.

Carl had asked him a similar question, and Negan still isn't entirely sure of an answer that makes sense outside of his own head.

"'Cause he understood what I was going through. He didn't push. I pushed."

"Why?"

"I wanted to screw around," Negan says around another drag. "At first. I thought a 'friends with benefits' thing would be good for both of us. God knows he needed to get laid." He chuckles.

"But something happened."

"Yeah. _Feelings_." He snarls the word the way Draco Malfoy says 'Potter.'

But Denise doesn't laugh at him like he thought. Okay, he didn't actually think she would, considering she's a professional, but there's still that residual garbage from his childhood he can't shake, knee-jerk fears that never really go away.

"Why do you think that happened?" Denise asks, rephrasing her original question, which he still hasn't really answered.

"Because he's good. He's gentle and kind, but he can be a tough son of a bitch when he wants to be. And he has a family already. I wouldn't be risking passing on my shit down the line, y'know? But you don't really think about that stuff when you're with someone. Everything just... sort of falls into place." Negan takes a final long puff from his cigarette before dropping it to the concrete. He stubs it out with the toe of his boot. "Alright, enough chick-flick moments. Is Carl gonna be okay? He's not too far down the rabbit hole, is he?"

Denise offers a shrug. "I can't really say for sure. He's a teenager, so his emotions are all over the place anyway. It's likely he's trying to shut himself off, so if something happens to Rick it won't hurt."

"But it fucking will."

Denise nods. "It's really unhealthy to lock your emotions away like that. He needs to grieve and let those feelings out, or else they just build up like toxins."

"Do you think he'll talk to you? If it would help him..."

"Maybe. He didn't open up to me, but he talked, and that's a good start. I can come by the house, if you think that would be better for him than bringing him to my office. Being in his own home might make him feel like he has a bit more control."

"You're the expert," Negan says. "And thank you, by the way, for offering to help. It means a lot."

When Negan makes it back upstairs to the ICU, Shane's there with the kids, a silent sentinel at Rick's bedside. Shane gives him a look Negan's very familiar with; he's seen it burning in the eyes of men who envied that Negan had Lucille. Shane's impotent rage toward him makes sense now that Negan's seeing it in the proper context.

"Why don't we step outside and have a little chat?" Negan says.

Shane scowls at him. "Nah."

"I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important."

Shane's face goes through a complicated set of emotions before he sighs and says, "Fine."

They stand outside the door to Rick's room. Shane puts his hands on his hips, like he has better things to do than listen to whatever Negan has to say.

"I know you don't like me," Negan starts, "and sometimes I don't like me either. But we both care about Carl, and I don't know if you've noticed but he's started to, well, lose his shit. He said he'll be fine if Rick dies, and there's so many things wrong with that I don't know where to start." Negan scrubs a hand through his hair, and, fuck, Shane's stupid headrubbing tic is contagious after all. "He's goin' down a dark path, and I think if you spent some time with him, he'd listen to you. You love Rick too, so you might know what to say to get through to him. I don't want him giving up hope on Rick."

Because Carl's indifference and despondency will eventually trickle down to Judith and poison her spirit. She soaks things up like a sponge, and she's in enough emotional disarray already.

Shane's mouth scrunches into a frown, and he stares at the floor for a moment before looking up at Negan. "What can I do?"

"I don't know. Spend the day with him, be his buddy. Whatever you think will work. You were all gung-ho about keeping the kids away from me, but now you get limp-dicked when I offer you to take them?" Negan scoffs.

"Now you want me to take both of them?"

"Hell no. Judith's easy to please. We color for a while, then we watch Frozen for the hundredth time, I fall asleep thirty minutes in, then she wakes me up and I pretend like I was watching the whole time. Easy-peasy. Besides, she's not the one in imminent danger of being a real fuckin' bummer."

"Alright," Shane finally says and, yep, it comes with a headrub. "I'll see what I can do."

"Great!" Negan claps a playful hand on Shane's shoulder. "Rick's gonna be happy as a clam to wake up and see us getting along!"

Shane makes a face and heads back inside.

* * *

Carl comes home around eight that night while Negan's watching a movie on the couch. Judith has fallen asleep against him, because if it doesn't have bright colors and animation she's not interested in watching it. Sucks for her, because The Blues Brothers is a classic.

"Hey, kid," Negan says, tipping his head against the back of the couch as Carl passes by. "How was date night with Uncle Shane?"

Carl makes a disgusted noise. "Fine. Did you tell him to say all that stuff about having faith in Dad?"

"Might'a mentioned it," Negan says with a cheeky grin.

Carl just scowls at him.

"Look, it's for her benefit," Negan says, pointing to the sleeping Judith. "Just keep your spirits up for her sake, at least. Your dad's gonna wake up. And if he doesn't..." Negan doesn't even want to go down that road. "We'll deal with it. But not yet. Not while he's still hangin' in there."

"Okay," Carl says, clearly as a way of exiting this conversation. He goes upstairs and shuts himself in.

Negan knows Carl's just reacting to the painful stretch of not knowing that comes with the terminally ill. It stresses you out, like the prolonged moments of suspense in a horror movie before the scare, and you want that tension released like a pressure valve, you want that monster to jump out of the shadows already, but he doesn't, so you're braced for it, and it wears you down and keeps you up at night. Negan's been there, done that, and brought back the souvenir t-shirt. He knows how it goes.

But Shane's words may have made an impression, however small, on Carl, and he'll probably ruminate over them tonight. That, coupled with Denise's upcoming visit on Wednesday, should at least push him in the right direction.

* * *

Monday afternoon, Negan's having a smoke in his car after practice when Carl and a girl he presumes is Carl's girlfriend appear at the passenger side window. Carl knocks on the glass, and Negan reaches over and rolls down the window.

"Enid wants a ride," Carl says, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

Negan jerks the stereo volume down, but Enid has recognized the song, and she asks Carl, "Is he seriously listening to Taylor Swift?" with a confused expression.

Carl sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Are you sure you wanna do this? It's probably less embarrassing to walk home."

"She wants to spend time with you, idiot," Negan says, playful. Carl's face goes red with chagrin, a trait he definitely gets from his father. "Get in, you two."

"So, Enid," Negan starts as they leave the school parking lot, "I've only heard that name once before, in a Barenaked Ladies song."

"How do you know that?"

"My wife loved that 90s alt-rock stuff."

Enid hears the past tense there. "What happened to her?"

"She died last year."

"Oh... Crap, I'm sorry."

Negan shrugs. "Shit happens. But let's get back to you. I know you're here 'cause you wanna see if the rumors are true and I'm serving as Carl's stand-in dad 'til Mr. Comatose wakes up."

Enid is quiet for a moment. "I'm just curious. I thought me and Carl could play video games or something if his dad wasn't home. But he hasn't invited me." Her last sentence has an edge to it, and she gently elbows Carl in the side.

"See? I fuckin' told you to invite her over," Negan says, glancing at Carl's pouty face in the rear-view mirror. "Enid, you think your folks would let you have dinner with us? Or are they the Mother Gothel, don't-let-her-leave-the-tower kind of parents?"

Enid smiles like she isn't sure if this is a joke. "You've seen Tangled?"

"I'm raising a three-year-old who lives off Disney movies and chicken nuggets. Of course I've seen Tangled."

Enid laughs, but it's not a mocking sound, more like she's oddly charmed that Negan has proven to be more than he appears. "Well, my dad's out of town on business, and my mom's working late tonight, so they probably won't know I'm gone."

"Well, then I guess it's up to you."

"That'd be cool. I mean, if you want."

Carl shoots Negan a look that says 'what the hell are you doing,' and Negan just chuckles to himself.

After picking up Judith from Carol's house, Negan gets to work in the kitchen while Carl and Enid keep Judith entertained. Enid seems to have a natural rapport with her, which Carl ought to have the good sense to find appealing.

"You sure you don't need any help?" Enid asks Negan.

"Nope. I got it covered. And it's easier to work my magic when I'm alone."

Negan expects Carl to groan and complain about his dirty jokes, but instead he says, "So how come you always make me help you?"

"'Cause you're not a guest."

Carl mutters something that sounds like 'you're the guest,' but Negan doesn't bust his balls over it. Yeah, Negan pretty much is a guest here, albeit having ascended to the position of temporary guardian, but as soon as Rick wakes up things will more than likely go back to the status quo.

Digging through the refrigerator reminds Negan he'll have to go to the store before the end of the week, but he finds a jar of spaghetti sauce he'd forgotten about, which gives him an extra day to procrastinate that particular errand.

"So you and Rick are, like, together?" Enid asks over dinner. They're all sitting at the table—the last time all four chairs were filled was when Rick was here, Negan thinks—and Carl looks uncomfortable with the fact that he's having dinner with both his girlfriend and sort-of step-father. But Negan's taken it upon himself to be Carl's wingman, since apparently the kid ain't gonna help himself.

Negan nods, says, "Yep," through a mouthful of spaghetti.

"Isn't that weird? You guys seem like total opposites."

"At first, yeah. But the deeper you dig, the more alike we are. And we like each other, so most of that stuff doesn't really matter."

"That's kind of sweet," Enid says, glancing at Carl.

Carl's face is scrunched into a wince like he's suffering from indigestion.

Enid laughs. "Carl, are you okay?"

"He's waiting for me to say something dirty," Negan explains. "But I won't because there are two ladies present."

Enid gives Carl a look, like she can't understand why he doesn't like Negan. Negan hopes Enid's warming to him, because that will definitely help Carl come around to Team Negan a lot quicker.

After dinner, Carl and Enid play Xbox on the couch while Negan gets Judith ready for bed. As Negan's tucking her into bed, Judith asks, "When's Daddy waking up?"

Negan takes a deep breath. "I don't know, sweetie. But it's important to keep going to see him. 'Cause I think he can hear us even while he's sleeping, and that might help him wake up sooner."

Judith squirms and pouts, clearly dissatisfied with that answer. "How come we didn't see him today?"

Oh shit. She's right. Has Negan been losing faith too?

"Well, Carl's been pretty bummed out lately, so I thought I'd do something nice for him by letting Enid stay over. But when your dad wakes up, I'll know, 'cause I have his phone. And mine."

"I miss Daddy."

"So do I, kiddo. I love him too."

"Does Daddy love you back?"

"I... I don't know. He never said it. But maybe he does. I'll have to ask him when he wakes up."

Judith gets comfortable in the bed, turning onto her side and sticking her hands underneath her cheek as though in prayer. "I wish he would wake up."

"Me too." Negan shuts his eyes and lets it all wash over him. "I miss him a lot. Being with your dad was the happiest I've been in a long time. When you find somebody like that, you don't let go." He sighs, shakes his head. "Get some sleep, okay?"

"Okay."

Negan stands up and switches off the lamp at her bedside. Her nightlight kicks on, and it's oddly peaceful to look at. Maybe he should get one for himself. "Goodnight, Judy."

"Night, Uncle Negan," comes her tired voice.

As Negan's leaving Judith's room, he hears Carl and Enid talking downstairs. "Yeah, he's kinda dorky, but he's cool," Enid's saying. "And I think it's cute he likes your dad so much."

Negan totally doesn't linger upstairs and listen in. He doesn't.

Carl makes an aggrieved noise, blasting some enemies onscreen. "You wouldn't think it was cute if it was your parents."

"Probably not. But you should still give him a chance. He seems like he's trying really hard. You know what that's like, don't you?"

 _Ooh, nice one, Enid._

"Yeah, I guess," Carl sighs.

Negan strolls down the stairs, whistling like he wasn't eavesdropping on their conversation. "You kids havin' fun?"

Enid sets the controller on the coffee table and tucks her long hair behind her ears as she stands up. "Yeah, but I should probably go. Mom doesn't always text before she comes home, and I'm technically grounded."

"Technically?" Negan chuckles. "I'll drive you home. Carl, you can hold down the fort for five minutes, right?"

"Oh, no, no," Enid says, "you don't need to do that. I live, like, three blocks away. I can just walk."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I walk home from school anyway. I'll be fine. Thanks for letting me hang out." Enid smiles. "Carl made me think you'd be a huge jerk, but you're actually kinda cool."

Carl looks embarrassed that Enid just sold him out like that.

"You're not so bad yourself," Negan tells her. "I'll have to talk some sense into Rick about letting you come around."

"See ya, Coach," Enid says, walking to the door.

"Let Carl know when you get home, okay?" Negan reminds her, because he's a little wary about letting her walk home alone, but it's still daylight out and this is a pretty safe neighborhood.

"I will." Enid closes the door behind her as she leaves.

"Now that wasn't so bad." Negan can't help but teasingly antagonize Carl.

Carl rolls his eyes. "You just embarrassed me every time you opened your mouth."

"She didn't seem to think so."

"'Cause she has to be nice to you."

"You're welcome," Negan says, smug as he sits beside Carl and takes Enid's place in the game. Carl looks irritated at first, but he's kind of getting owned by the other team, so Negan's help is appreciated.

"We didn't see Dad today," Carl says after a few moments of shooting enemy soldiers.

"Yeah, Judith already got on my case about that." Secretly, Negan's ecstatic that missing a day of vigilance over Rick bothers Carl enough to mention it. "But if his condition changed, Rosita would text me. Or Maggie or Glenn or any of his visitors. Your dad's a popular guy."

"He's helped a lot of people."

Including Negan, for sure. He knows exactly where he'd be right now if it weren't for Rick. Negan figured there was nothing left for him after Lucille died, just a life of aimless wandering, hard drinking, and living dangerously until he ran out of gas. But then Rick happened, and Negan could breathe again, like he was pulled out from the bottom of the ocean.

How many others like Negan has Rick saved?

* * *

"It's been over a month. Guess I should fill you in on all the shit you've been missing, huh? I'm teaching Carl to drive. Kid's not too bad. Hasn't put a scratch on Lucille yet. He's overly cautious as fuck. Probably gets it from you. Judith's growing up so fast. She's already starting to point out when I'm full of shit... She's sleeping, so I can say that. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I set Carl up with Denise for some heart-to-hearts. I think it's helping him, but I can tell he just wants all this to be over with. One way or another. He's a 'shit or get off the pot' kind of guy. And, fuck, sometimes I feel the same way, and that makes me feel like the world's biggest asshole, but I'll wait for you as long as I have to."

Negan stops talking, because he sees Carl standing in the doorway of Rick's hospital room. Carl has heard everything, and the expression on his face conveys that this hurts him somehow.

Negan's expecting him to make some snide comment about feelings or how Rick's not going to wake up so he should just stop trying, but instead Carl says, "You really love him, huh?"

Negan nods. His hands are shaking. He doesn't know how to make them stop.


	18. Chapter 18

Rick's phone receives multiple texts from Glenn on Tuesday afternoon. The first is a photo of an exhausted, sweaty Maggie holding a newborn baby. The rest are excited spasms of emojis, and somewhere in there are the words, "Hershel Steven Rhee," and Negan is suddenly overwhelmed by feelings he doesn't have a name for.

Carl fires him a text almost seconds later: _Maggie had the baby!_ Like he doesn't know Negan's in possession of Rick's phone and thus privy to Glenn's group messages.

After school, they head to the hospital, but instead of going up to the intensive care unit, they stop at a different floor filled with new life instead of death's slow, creeping decay. Maggie's room is bright white and filled with colorful decorations celebrating the child's birth. Like Rick, Maggie has clearly touched many lives, if the amount of visitors in her room is any indication. Glenn is there, of course, but also Carol and Judith and Sophia and a few Negan doesn't recognize. There's a blonde girl holding Judith, and Negan's guessing she's Maggie's sister. Something about the eyes.

Glenn greets Carl and Negan with a big smile. "Hey, you guys. I'm a father." He huffs a tired, happy laugh. Looking at Negan, he asks, "Any pointers?"

Negan smirks. "I'm the last person you want advice from." He glances around the room, searching for the baby. "Where's the little tyke?"

"He's in the nursery. The doctor said Maggie should rest, but she wanted to see everyone first."

"You two, get in here," Maggie says, beckoning to Negan and Carl. Glenn lets them inside, and they gather at her bedside. "I made a person!" Maggie grins, still a little loopy from the pain meds. "Isn't he beautiful? Glenn showed you the pictures, right?"

Negan chuckles. "You bet he did. Don't let him go; you got one of the good ones."

Maggie laughs, placing a hand on his arm. Her touch almost burns his skin. Negan hasn't been touched like this in over a month. "I want Rick to be the godfather. You think he'd like that?"

"He'd be friggin' overjoyed."

"I can help babysit," Carl offers. "Since you guys've watched Judith so much."

"That's really sweet. Thank you." Maggie looks at both of them, earnest and empathetic. "You doin' okay?"

"Hangin' in there," Negan says. Understatement of the century.

Carl nods noncommittally, and Negan can tell he wants to unload but knows now isn't the time.

"I wonder how old he'll be when Dad wakes up," Carl says, a weak attempt at a joke, but it makes Maggie smile sadly, and that's all they can hope for here.

Glenn approaches the bed and takes Maggie's hand in a gesture so tender it makes Negan look away.

"Kid, where are your parents?" Negan asks Glenn before his brain can stop him from treading potentially sensitive territory. "Or are they..."

"No, they're flying in tonight. They live in Michigan."

"Are you kidding? That's where I'm from! Lemme guess, Detroit?"

"Yeah. You too?"

"Nah, further south. A little town called Hell."

Glenn laughs. "My parents went on a road trip a couple years back and sent me a postcard from there. They thought it was hilarious."

"Yeah, the 'Welcome to Hell' sign really sets you up for a fun time."

The blonde girl tending to Judith comes nearer, leading Judith by the hand across the room to where Negan stands at Maggie's bedside. "You must be a friend of Mr. Grimes." The girl has doe-like, vivid blue eyes and an innocent face, and for the briefest moment Negan wonders what it might be like to dirty up that innocence, preferably with his cock, though he's never had a problem with using his mouth.

He can't help it. He's rarely gone this long without having sex—there was that awful stretch of time when Lucille was too weak to make herself soup, much less endure intercourse—and it's like an itch he needs to scratch, but the thought of actually pursuing it terrifies him. He can disconnect emotion from the physical act, but fucking someone else while the man he loves is in a coma feels like a betrayal.

"Me?" Negan says, mildly startled by the question and his own arousal. "Oh yeah, me and Rick are like two peas in a pod."

"Negan," Judith says, latching onto his leg. She has recently dropped the 'Uncle' part of Negan's title, and Negan isn't sure if that's a good or bad thing. Has she demoted him, or is this an indicator of closeness?

Beth looks at Judith and smiles. "You're taking care of her?"

"Who blabbed?"

"Carol did." She offers him her hand; it's soft and smooth and makes Negan feel like a sleaze. "I'm Beth. Maggie's sister."

"Negan. Rick's... partner." Like they're cowboys. Or that they co-own a law firm. Fuck, he's such an idiot. But _boyfriend_ sounds too much like they're in middle school and scribbling each other's name in hearts on their Trapper Keepers. So what the hell is he supposed to say?

But Beth hears the subtext there, evident in the quirk at the corner of her mouth. "That's really sweet."

"So they tell me." Negan reflexively reaches down and cups Judith's head, letting her know he's not going anywhere. He thinks she's developing abandonment issues, if her clingy behavior is any indication. But it's not like he can blame her, considering what she's gone through. At least they have something in common.

After Maggie has succumbed to sleep, Negan and Carl find the nursery. Behind the glass is a line of six newborns in wheeled cribs, all wearing beanies and swaddled in white blankets. A blue index card on one of the cribs reads: Hershel Steven Rhee. 2:41 PM.

Staring at the sleeping, squirming babies, Negan imagines how Rick must have felt standing here both times his children entered the world perfect and untouched. He sees the images in a montage, like a life insurance commercial in his head: Rick standing outside the glass, gazing at this brand new life, then Rick and Lori bringing the baby home, taking turns waking up to feed him, then he grows up and becomes Carl, then Rick's back here again, staring at a pink index card this time, and they do it all over again, then the third time Rick's on the wrong floor and lying in a hospital bed, and Lori is a ghost at his bedside.

* * *

Negan is lying in bed with Rick, their limbs lazily tangled after sex. At least, Negan's assuming they had sex, because he doesn't remember having it. He can't feel the heat of Rick's body either, even though they're pressed together so there's barely any space between them. On some distant, foggy plane of consciousness, Negan knows this is a dream, but he's going to hold onto it as long as he can, because Rick is here with him, and that's all that matters.

Rick murmurs something against Negan's skin, burying whispers into the pockets of his collar bones, but Negan can't catch the words. His fingers thread through Rick's hair. He can't feel anything.

"You're so goddamn important to me," Negan says, the sentiment ringing too loud in the silent space. "I love you, Rick. I need you to see that. I'm begging you."

Rick's hands are coasting down Negan's back, but when they fall away he's holding a knife, which he uses to promptly slash Negan's throat, and Negan falls back against the pillows, coughing and spitting and gagging on his own blood.

Dormant rage awakens in him, like an old car engine sputtering to life in a roar of ignition, and Negan responds to this attempt on his life by pummeling Rick with his fists. Then they're fighting, and Rick is covered in Negan's blood, and this is the exact opposite of what they should be doing, but here they are, trading punches and the wrong type of blows. It's like Negan's trapped in his own head, watching someone else pilot his body and bend Rick's knee in a way the joint was never intended, and it snaps and pops and Rick screams, and Negan doesn't know how the fuck they ended up like this.

He wakes up with a jolt. Judith's terrified face hovers over Negan's own, coming in and out of focus as he blinks through wet eyes. "Negan, wake up," she says, shaking his shoulder with as much strength as her tiny body can produce. Her tears glisten in the moonlight leaking into the room. "You had a bad dream."

Negan's still shaking, his heart banging against his ribs.

"It's okay," Judith tells him, her chubby hands wiping at his face, and Negan is horrified for an entirely different reason until her hands come away clean. No blood. Just tears.

"You're crying too," Negan points out. Bless her heart, but she's in no position to comfort him. He sits up and rakes his hands through his hair.

"You scared me." She rubs his back the way he does for her when she has nightmares, and the gesture breaks something new inside of him.

"Sorry, kid." Negan takes a deep breath through quaking lungs. "I miss your dad."

Judith sniffles and scoots closer so she can bury her face in his side, her tears forming wet spots on his t-shirt, and they stay that way until she cries herself out.

* * *

It's been a month and a half since Negan and Rick exchanged words or glances or fluids. Negan, Judith, Carl, and Shane are gathered in Rick's dismal hospital room. The bouquets decorating the room have begun to wilt, an outward manifestation of everyone's optimism regarding Rick's condition.

Rick's doctor, Dr. Horvath, is an older man with grey hair and dark eyebrows that look like caterpillars on his face. "I wish I had more news for you," he tells them, and at least he has the good sense to sound disappointed about this, but given how tightly interwoven this town is he might be a friend of Rick's, too. "But so often medicine is a matter of waiting for the body to heal itself."

Shane leans against the windowsill, arms folded over his chest, his biceps bulging against the sleeves of his deputy's uniform. He's scowling like he wants to punch something; Negan can relate. "It's been almost two months," Shane says. "How long do you think he can hang on like this?"

"Who knows? It could be weeks, months, years. Hours. Comas are unpredictable."

"You've seen this before, right? What does your gut say?" Shane has commandeered the questions, and Negan feels like an interloper. He looks at Rick buried beneath all the tubes and wires.

Dr. Horvath is quiet for a moment. "I don't think the length of his coma is a good sign. The bullet caused some extensive tissue damage and blood loss, but that shouldn't keep him out this long."

Shane exhales an angry sigh from his nostrils like a raging bull. "So, what, we should start thinking about..." He doesn't finish that, but he doesn't need to.

"Oh, Christ," Negan groans. "Not you too?" Why is Negan the only one around here with some goddamn hope? "Can we have some faith in Rick?"

Then, as though their conversation opened the lock on his brain and reached him through the haze, Rick's voice sounds in a dry, hoarse whisper. "Negan?"

It's a miracle, really, and Negan's heart stops in his chest and crawls into his throat. Rick is awake and alive and looking perplexed and bedraggled, and Negan is overwhelmed that Rick's first post-coma word is his name.

"Daddy!" Judith cries, scampering toward the bed.

"No way," Carl says, awed as he follows his sister.

Shane's head snaps in the direction of Rick's voice, and he joins the children there at Rick's bedside.

"Dad, are you okay?" Carl asks, and Rick is looking at his kids like he's never seen them before, like some cosmic accident has caused him to awaken in the wrong universe.

Rick's eyes find Negan's own, and Negan can't help the goofy smile that crawls across his lips, but when Rick speaks it's that godawful nightmare all over again, the venomous words like a blade against his throat: "What are _you_ doing here?"


	19. Chapter 19

This is okay, Negan tells himself. So maybe Rick has amnesia and doesn't remember who Negan is. That's fine. They can work with this. They can start over. Negan will be less of a shithead, and there will be awkward conversations and admissions, but through it all a sense of renewal, a second chance. Negan will gladly take it.

But Negan opens his mouth and no words come out.

Dr. Horvath is at Rick's side with a speed that defies his age. "Rick, how are you feeling?"

Rick looks at him, looks at Shane, whose face is streaked with tears. "What's going on? You're s'posed to be..." He licks his dry lips, starts again. "Carl, what happened to your eye?"

Carl looks confused for a moment, then remembers he'd had a black eye—or at least the fading bruises of one—when Rick last saw him. "It healed up. You've been out a while."

Rick takes this in, a baffled expression on his face. Dr. Horvath presses a button at Rick's bedside to call for a nurse.

"You got bigger," Rick says to Judith, who giggles.

"'Course I did, Daddy! I grew!"

"You've been out for almost two months," Negan tells him, finally finding words. "Glenn and Maggie had their baby."

Rick's eyes go wide. "Glenn?"

Negan looks to Dr. Horvath.

"It might take him some time to remember things."

Negan wants to laugh. If that's his biggest problem now, he'll take it a thousand times over. He's just so fucking glad to have Rick back in any capacity.

Rick sits up, slowly, and Dr. Horvath tries to ease him back, murmuring, "Easy, Rick," but Rick's not having any of it. He cranes his neck to look out the window, like he's expecting to see something else besides a sparsely filled parking lot.

Rosita enters the room, and Dr. Horvath tells her something in a low voice before he leaves to tend to other patients. "Rick, you're awake!" Rosita says, checking his vital signs. "You really had us worried there. Are you feeling alright? Any pain or numbness?"

Rick shakes his head and looks directly at Negan. "I don't want you here." It's the vicious stare Rick wore when they first met, but there's something deeper behind it now.

Negan expects Shane to gloat about this, but Shane appears to be just as confused as Negan feels.

Rosita gives Negan a sympathetic smile, almost apologetic for Rick's rudeness. "Negan, go on and wait outside for a bit, okay?"

"Alright, Rick," Negan says, holding up his hands as though warding off an argument. "If you wanna play hard to get, fine. Only makes me want you more."

* * *

Rick doesn't feel like himself. The world is topsy-turvy, like he's looking at it through a funhouse mirror. His mouth is dry and dessicated. Rosita hands him a cup of water that he greedily swallows down.

Why the hell was Negan here?

"You had us worried, brother," Shane says, and Rick can't understand why he's here either. He's not supposed to be... "Thought you weren't gonna make it."

"You're not—I killed you."

Shane laughs. "Nah, you didn't. You shot the perp, not me. All that blood you saw on me was yours. I'm fine."

Rosita puts a hand on Rick's arm. "His memory should come back in a day or two," she says, addressing Shane and Carl.

Judith starts to fuss, reaching for him, and Carl picks her up and sets her on the bed by Rick's legs. The last time he saw her she was about a year old. Where did the time go? How could it only have been two months?

"Carl," Rick croaks, and Carl looks at him in a way he never has before.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Carl says with a little laugh. "You're the one we were worried about."

"And Judith?"

"We're okay. Negan's been taking care of us."

Something cold crawls up Rick's spine. "Negan?"

"Yeah. Y'know, the scruffy guy with the leather jacket?"

"The one you kicked outta the room," Shane adds.

Rick can't comprehend what he's hearing. The thought of that violent madman around his children terrifies him too much to think clearly.

Carl chuckles at Rick's bewilderment. "I know, it's crazy. But he's actually pretty okay. He helps me with school stuff and takes care of Judith—"

"Negan!" Judith chirps.

"Yeah, she adores him."

No, no, this isn't right. Rick doesn't even have words for how wrong this is.

"Rick, you okay?" Rosita asks, and it's only then Rick realizes his heart is pounding, because the monitor to his left starts beeping faster. "Does something hurt?"

He shakes his head, focusing on Carl. "Carl, listen to me. I don't want you around him."

Carl and Shane exchange a glance.

"Look, I hated the guy at first," Shane says, "but Carl's right. He's good people. Probably shouldn't swear around the kids so much, but he's getting better. You picked a winner."

Rick... _chose_ Negan?

Rick's brain feels fuzzy, and this conversation isn't helping.

"Dad, Negan's your boyfriend, remember?" Carl says slowly.

Nausea curls in Rick's stomach. He thinks he might throw up. "No, no," he says, shaking his head again. "I'm s'posed to be with Michonne."

Carl makes a noise that sounds like a laugh, but Rick can tell he's too worried about his father's mental state to properly fake it. "Michonne's married. She has a kid, remember?"

"Guys, why don't we let Rick rest for a while?" Rosita suggests. "Give him some time to get his memory back."

Carl nods and picks up Judith. "We'll see you later, Dad, okay?"

"Bye, Daddy!"

"See ya, Rick," Shane says, then they're gone, and Rick doesn't know what's real anymore.

* * *

Rick swears he's seeing ghosts.

"Don't look so happy to see me," Abraham says once he gets a look at Rick's terrified expression.

"You're not supposed to be here," Rick says, mostly to himself.

"Rosita didn't stop me. Figured it was okay for you to have visitors."

Rick shakes his head. He seems to be doing that a lot, as though rejecting this bizarre reality in which he's awakened. "Negan killed you."

That makes Abraham laugh. "I'd like to see him try. He's all bark and no bite."

But Rick remembers that horrible night. The awful squelching sounds. The smell of wet rust. The taste of blood on his cheek, dripping into his mouth. The sight of Negan's wolfish grin and gory bat.

Rick feels something catch in his chest as panic sets in.

Abraham adds, "He's in the waiting room, texting everyone in your phone tellin' them you woke up." He looks around the room. "Guess I was the first to get here."

"Why would he do that?"

"Same reason he took care of your kids while you were out: he cares about you. I mean, I'm just guessin' here, but hell if I can figure out an ulterior motive. You're not exactly a sugar daddy."

Something slips through the cracks in Rick's memory; it's him and Negan lying in bed, skin on skin, and Negan wants Rick to call him Daddy, and Rick's laughing at how ridiculous that is. There's no death, decay, or destruction in this moment, just the two of them, happiness radiating off the image like a solar flare.

It doesn't fit with the other memories, but Rick knows it's real. He couldn't make that up, wouldn't want to after seeing what Negan's capable of.

"Where's Glenn?" Rick asks.

"I heard his wife had a baby, so he's probably on diaper duty."

That can't be right. Maggie had just learned she was pregnant the last time Rick saw her, mourning her husband's battered, bloody corpse. How could she have the baby in just two months? How could Judith have grown so much in such a short time? And how could Glenn and Abraham (and Shane!) still be alive?

And where are all the goddamn zombies?

* * *

A little while after Abraham shows up, Carol arrives at the hospital with Sophia. Carol looks saddened to see Negan sitting by himself in the lonely waiting area.

"He didn't want me in there," Negan says, answering her question before it's asked.

"Really? Are you sure the nurses didn't kick you out for excessive vulgarity?" Carol jokes, because the thought of Rick not wanting Negan with him is laughable.

Negan chuckles weakly. "I don't think Rick remembers me."

"But he wouldn't kick you out for that, would he?"

This gets a whole new set of anxieties spinning in Negan's head. Is Rick faking amnesia as an easy avenue to bow out of this relationship? It occurs to Negan that Rick didn't ask him who he was. He asked 'what are you doing here,' implying that he already knows who Negan is. At no point did Rick say anything to indicate that Negan is a stranger to him.

Shit.

A cold hand squeezes Negan's heart, making it hard to breathe.

Carol isn't in Rick's room very long, as Rosita shoos everyone out so Rick can get some rest. Which makes zero sense to Negan, because the guy just had about two months' worth of rest. But rules are rules, so he takes Carl and Judith home. At least the kids are happy, but Negan can't shake the feeling that something is very wrong.

* * *

Carl texts Negan the next afternoon: _Dad wants you._

Negan's thumb hovers over the keyboard, and he debates typing back a stupid, self-assured joke, but he's not feeling so hot today. He pockets his phone and heads to Rick's room.

Inside, fresh bouquets sit on the windowsill, and Rick's not hooked up to so many tubes anymore. He's gained back a bit of color that makes him look less like a zombie. He stares at Negan with an undecipherable expression. But Negan has seen it before—he saw it in the mirror every day during the last few months of Lucille's life.

Negan wants to lay it all on the line— _you're probably not too crazy about me anymore, but I fucking love you, Rick, I just need you to hear that, okay?_ —but he wants to know what Rick has to say first.

Negan struts into the room, feigning confidence. "There he is! Sleeping Beauty, awake at last! And I didn't even have to kiss you."

Rick attempts a smile. "Sorry about last time. I was pretty whacked out." He looks at Shane, who's been watching Carl and Judith while Negan's been banished to the waiting room. "Shane, can you give us a moment? Just me and Negan?"

"You got it," Shane says and leads the kids out of the room. Negan watches them leave, because he's a little afraid to look in Rick's eyes and see something other than love radiating there.

"So..." Rick rubs a hand over the gnarly beard he's cultivated during his time here. "You've been taking care of Carl and Judith?"

Negan shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets. "That's just the kinda guy I am. But hey, enough about me. Tell me about this dream you had. I get the feeling it was pretty fucked up."

Rick blinks, glancing away for a split-second. "You don't wanna hear that."

"The fuck I don't. You should know by now you can tell me anything. Or did you not remember that yet? Oops: spoilers."

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of Rick's mouth. "It's not important."

"It was important enough for you to kick me outta the room yesterday," Negan says, moving closer to the bed. He keeps his tone casual, but inside he's nervous as fuck. There's a reason Rick's trying to avoid this conversation, and that's why they need to have it.

Rick sighs, closing his eyes and lying back against the pillows. "There were... zombies."

Negan snorts a laugh. "And we're off to a fucking fantastic start. Go on." He sits in the chair at Rick's bedside.

"I woke up here before, but there was no one... The hospital was abandoned. Except for them... Lori and Carl were missing. Shane took them somewhere safe. I had to find them."

"What about Judith?"

"She wasn't born yet. In the dream she was Shane's daughter. Not mine."

Negan lets out a low whistle. He wants to tell Rick that Lori wasn't the one Shane had his eye on, but there will be time for that later. Maybe.

"I found Shane and Lori and Carl. That's where I met Glenn. And Daryl. Then we went to a farm, found Maggie and Beth. Shane tried to kill me, so I killed him..."

"Jesus. And there's zombies somewhere in all of this?"

"Everywhere. You can't let your guard down. But they're not..." Rick shakes his head, and Negan wonders what he was going to say. "We found a prison, made a home there. Lori died giving birth to Judith. And the guy who shot me"—Rick lifts a hand to his chest, presumably over the spot where the bullet pierced through skin—"wanted the prison for himself. He killed Maggie's dad and a whole bunch of others. We all got split up after that. But we found each other again. A bunch of cannibals tried to kill us. We killed them first. Then we found a gated community called Alexandria. But we weren't safe. There was a group of outlaws going around and forcing everyone to give them supplies or else they'd kill people from their group. We tried to stop them, but there were too many..."

Rick doesn't look like he wants to finish this story.

"So what happened?"

Rick looks at him and says, "You did. You were their leader. You killed Abraham and Glenn. Beat them to death with a baseball bat you named Lucille."

Negan doesn't move. His heart doesn't beat, his blood doesn't flow, and he doesn't breathe.

"You almost made me cut off Carl's arm, but... you stopped."

Jesus fucking Christ, is this what Rick really thinks of Negan? That he's just some violent dickhead with anger issues? Fuck, he shouldn't have told Rick about Dwight, should have kept that buried deep down so it couldn't destroy anything else like it did to Lucille. Lucille looked at him differently after that, and he knows in his heart she would have left him if the cancer hadn't hit first.

Negan makes himself laugh like none of this bothers him. "Shit, they had you on some good fuckin' drugs, huh, Rick?"

* * *

It really fucking bothers him.

After a day or two, Rick is discharged from the hospital to a physical rehabilitation center, because his muscles have atrophied after almost two months of disuse. The facility is just outside Atlanta, but Negan makes the drive every day for the kids' sake. Judith's always excited to see her dad, and Carl's spirits are definitely lifting with each visit.

But there's this invisible wall between Rick and Negan now, all thanks to that fucking dream. Negan can't help but feel like Rick's subconscious was at play there, and no matter how many times Negan tells himself it doesn't mean anything, it keeps nibbling at his brain like a termite.

Rick doesn't love him anymore, if he ever did. He's afraid of Negan, afraid of what he's capable of.

This is exactly what Negan has feared since the beginning.

Carl finds Negan one sleepless night digging through Rick's closet, shoving his own clothes into a Rick is alive and (mostly) well, Judith has taken to sleeping in her own room again, which leaves Negan lonelier than he'd like to be.

"Um, what're you doing?" Carl asks with attitude, like he's a parent who caught his son trying to sneak out.

"Your dad's coming home by the middle of next week, so I thought I should get all my shit moved out beforehand."

"Did he break up with you?" Carl sounds worried, and normally Negan would gloat about that, but he's not in the mood.

"Not yet."

"What the hell does that mean?" Carl pushes his way into the room and stops Negan from packing his things.

Negan wonders how to explain this. _See, your dad had a dream about a zombie apocalypse where I was a baseball bat-wielding psychopath who murdered two of his friends_. _Oh, and I also tried to make him chop off your arm. Y'know, for reasons._

Yeah, probably not the best way to go about that one.

"Rick wanted me out of that room 'cause he had a dream I murdered two of his friends. Abe and Glenn, for those taking notes."

Carl shrugs, huffs an impatient laugh. "So?"

"So?" Negan throws out his arms like he's trying to fly. "What part of that is normal to you?"

"Dreams are just weird, man. Your brain mashes all kinds of shit together that you saw or experienced or didn't even know you did. Like, your brain can't just make up a face, so it uses a face you've seen at some point for every person in your dreams. That's probably what Dad did. It's not on you."

"Yes, it is. Lemme let you in on a little secret. Before he woke up, I had a nightmare where Rick cut my throat after sex."

"Ew."

Negan ignores him. "And then we started fighting and trying to kill each other. I don't need a fucking book of dream interpretations to figure that one out: I'm terrified of this exact fucking thing—Rick realizes I'm a monster, and he leaves me."

Carl stares at him in confusion. "Why would Dad think that?"

Negan sighs and claws a hand through his hair as he sits on the edge of the bed. "A while back, I told Rick something private. Something I've never told anyone except Lucille. I wasn't proud of it. But I told him because I wanted to get the break-up out of the way before I got in too deep. But Rick was really fuckin' cool about it, so I thought we'd moved past it. That maybe it didn't bother him."

Carl's quiet for a moment, then in a soft voice he says: "You killed someone?"

Negan stares at his hands. He remembers what it felt like to hold that bat, to crush Dwight's skull like a styrofoam cup. "It had to be done." He tells himself this because the alternative is unbearable. But maybe the alternative is all Rick sees now, as though the coma has lifted him to a higher plane of awareness unsusceptible to the rose-tinted glasses of infatuation, and now Rick can see the flags waving in his face have been red the whole time.

"So you think that's why Dad dreamed about you killing Glenn and Abraham?"

"It has to be. Why else would he make me the villain? Why not his right-hand man or at least a love interest who gets eaten by zombies? I was his goddamn boyfriend."

"Don't say that."

"Fine, _partner_ ," Negan corrects, rolling his eyes.

"No, you said 'was'. You're still together. Unless there's something you're not telling me."

Negan says nothing, stares at the floor.

"Are you seriously gonna give up on him just 'cause of a stupid dream? What happened to all that 'have faith' crap you kept talking about? Maybe you should actually talk to Dad instead of just running out on us. Isn't that what your dad did?"

Negan hears himself laugh. "Fuck you, kid."

"I'm just saying."

"You're saying a hell of a lot for a kid wearing Simpsons pajamas."

Carl looks down at his sleep pants, frowns. "Shut up. You know I'm right. You're just scared."

Negan is, in fact, fucking terrified.


	20. Chapter 20

Rick's room at the facility has a sliding door that leads out to a small porch. There's a garden out back, and from the outside the place looks like a really nice motel. Inside is about the same. The linens have flower prints that remind Negan of visits to his grandmother's house. Rick's lying in the bed and talking with Eric, his physical therapist, when Negan enters the room.

Rick's mountain-man beard was shaved away two days ago, replaced by thick stubble. He looks good, healthy. Negan wonders if he should shave his own beard, decides against it for now.

"Hi, Negan," Eric greets him, always chipper, like he chugs three Red Bulls every day. "We were just chatting. I can leave you alone if you'd like."

"Do me a solid and show the kids where you keep the Jell-O," Negan says.

"Sure! C'mon, let's go." Eric leads Carl and Judith down the hall, leaving Rick and Negan alone to sort out the tangled mess of their lives together.

As Negan moves closer, Rick tilts his head. "I just noticed you never actually stand straight. You're always lilting," Rick says with a laugh.

"My animal magnetism just keeps pullin' me in all directions." It's dumb, but it makes Rick smile, and Negan is momentarily filled with hope that they can salvage things. He takes a deep breath and decides to just go for it. "I hate to pull the relationship talk card on you, but are we still... a thing? 'Cause I can't tell if you want me around anymore."

Rick's brow furrows like he doesn't understand the words in that order. "What are you talkin' about?"

"Well, one, you've been kinda distant. I get that you're coming back from some serious shit, but I don't feel like you're happy to see me. And two... that fucking dream, Rick. What the goddamn shit was that? You have a dream that I'm some bloodthirsty psycho and suddenly you don't want me around?"

"I thought it was real," Rick murmurs. "I swear. Until I saw Abraham and Glenn... Everyone says it was a dream, but I saw it. I felt it. I went through it. That's hard to shake."

"Well, your subconscious is a real son of a bitch. Casting me as a villain? The guy who bashes in your friends' skulls for shits and giggles? I know I can be selfish and vulgar and self-destructive and, okay, I did that _one_ time, but, Christ, Rick, is that really what you think of me?"

If Rick knew about Negan's own dream he'd probably throw the same question back at him. But Negan's holding on pretty tightly to the interpretation that his dream was metaphorical—he doesn't actually think Rick will physically hurt him. And Rick's actions in the dreamscape weren't based off something Rick told Negan in confidence.

Rick looks hurt, and Negan immediately regrets his tirade. No one that beautiful should look this sad. "Negan... That's not... No, of course not."

"I took care of Carl and Judith for almost two months, spent at least an hour at your bedside every day, begging and pleading God for you to wake up. I was gonna raise your kids if somethin' happened to you, and the first thing you say to me after all that is you don't want me there? Do you have any idea what that feels like?" Negan makes himself stop. He's treading too close to 'be proud of me' territory. Rein that shit in.

Rick shakes his head in stunned shock. "I'm so sorry. I still thought it was real—that you were..."

"I don't care about that. I care about why you thought it up in the first place. There has to be a reason that's where your brain went when you thought of me. Why couldn't I have been good to you?"

"Negan, c'mon. You are good. You took care of Carl and Judith like they're your kids too. You did all that for me, for them. I'm proud of you."

The pain and joy from hearing this is delayed. It starts small, like a pinprick, then ripples outward.

"Don't say that to me if you don't mean it."

"I mean it. I can't control my dreams. But I know who you are. That's why I'm with you."

"Then how come you've barely fucking talked to me since you woke up? You won't even touch me."

"Well, come here and I will."

Negan does, and Rick reaches out for him, sliding his hands up Negan's arm. The warmth of his skin is almost too much, and Negan shivers.

"You were distant too," Rick reminds him.

"'Cause I thought you didn't want me anymore. I thought you were afraid of me."

"No." Rick squeezes Negan's hand in his own. "It has never been like that. Ever." He meets Negan's eyes with so much acceptance that Negan almost looks away. But he doesn't, just faces it head-on like he's staring into the sun. He feels like he might burn up. "Everything in that dream was fucked. It wasn't just you. Tara and Rosita weren't together. Hershel was dead. Sophia was dead. Carol and Morgan barely knew each other. Judith was Shane's daughter with Lori. Carl lost an eye."

So that's why Rick made the comment about Carl's eye when he woke up. Nice to have context.

"I think that's why it hurt so much, seein' you like that," Rick says. "'Cause that's not you."

"But you were still into me, right?"

Rick laughs, and the sound washes over Negan like a cleansing rain. "Nah, you haven't let me do that yet."

"Rick, you fuckin' tease." That's never been something Negan wanted before Rick.

Rick links his fingers with Negan's own. "I could've died without ever telling you I love you."

Negan feels weightless, his heart hovering somewhere in his throat. Rick loves him.

Rick loves him.

It's incomprehensible, impossible. But there it is.

Rick doesn't notice Negan's internal screaming. "I thought about that while I was bleeding out. I thought about you and Judith and Carl. And I never told you, and I didn't want to die without you knowing that."

Negan tries to say something, but his throat is too tight, and if he fights it the tears building behind his eyes will fall, and, no, he's not going to cry.

But this is the happiest goddamn day of his life, so Negan doesn't care that his eyes are leaking and Rick's watching him. "You fuckin' sap. Whatever happened to not falling in love with me?"

"You're hard to resist," Rick says with a shrug and a smile.

"Speaking of hard..." Negan jokes, but all he wants to do right now is hold Rick for a while.

So he does.

* * *

 _Epilogue..._

A welcome-home party for Rick takes place the following weekend. The backyard of the Grimes house is packed with well-wishers from their cozy little town. Abraham mans the grill, chugging a frosty beer while he cooks hamburgers and hot dogs. There's a picnic table loaded with potato chips, condiments, buns, and finger sandwiches. Duane, Sophia, Carl, and Judith play in the backyard.

Inside, Tara and Sasha have turned the kitchen into a makeshift bar while they mix drinks and throw back shots. Rosita sits on the couch with Glenn and Maggie, cooing over the newborn Hershel. Beth is there too, helping Carol set the table with paper plates, pies, gooey dips, and chicken wings.

Rick, however, is outside on the front porch like he's trying to escape all the merriment. Negan finds him here and can't resist poking fun at him.

"There you are, party pooper." Negan shuts the screen door and takes the empty seat next to Rick. Rick's holding a martini glass of something fruity in his hand. "Can't stand all the warm wishes? And what's with the girly drink?"

"Tara made it for me. Who am I to say no?" Rick shrugs, taking a sip. "And I'd tell you I need a breather from so much attention, but somethin' tells me you wouldn't understand."

Negan chuckles. He settles into the chair and stretches out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. "Y'know what this place needs? A porch swing. Isn't it Georgia law that you have to have a porch swing?"

Rick laughs, and maybe he's only humoring Negan, but Negan's gone so long without hearing Rick's voice or his laugh that it's like ambrosia to him now. "Lori thought we should have one too."

"Great minds think alike, Rick," Negan says, tapping his temple. "I thought you didn't believe in coincidences."

Rick makes his confused thinking face. "I said that?"

"You bet your ass. During one of our very first conversations."

"How do you even remember that?"

"I got a great memory for little things."

"Guess I have to reintroduce you to my cock, then," Rick says casually, then sips at his drink like a motherfucking boss.

Negan snorts a laugh. "Hot damn! I love this new, flirty Rick Grimes."

"What about the old one?" Rick asks with a curious smile.

Negan sees where Rick's going with that, and he's going to follow it all the way down. "Him too. I love 'Blushing Virgin' Rick and 'Cranky Dad' Rick and all sorts of other Ricks we don't even know about yet. You're all of them, and I'm fuckin' crazy about you."

Rick is prone to blushing when presented with a sexual joke or situation, or, Negan's learning, when someone's open and honest with him. His cheeks flush pink, but he doesn't look away, because this isn't something he has to be embarrassed about.

"Feeling's mutual," Rick says. "'Bloodthirsty Psycho' Negan and 'Really In Touch With His Feelings' Negan are both fine in my book."

"As long as I can plow your ass like a pro, who's complaining, right?"

"Stop," Rick chuckles. He sets his glass down and covers Negan's arm with his hand. His fingers are damp and cold from condensation, but his touch still warms Negan like a fire from within. "I'm with you, okay? No matter what."

Negan wants so badly to believe this, but first he'll have to forgive Rick for the dream. It's not something he can issue like a certificate, and he'll have to keep forgiving Rick until it takes. But Rick isn't the type to allow himself to be miserable just to spare someone's feelings. He's headstrong and knows how to take control, and if he thought Negan was a threat to him or his kids he'd have taken him out by now.

Rick would lay down his life for his family. If push comes to shove, he'd lay down yours too. He saw this same quality in Negan and didn't shy away. Lucille had feared Negan's devotion; Rick held steadfast and said, "Me too."

The rumble of a motorcyle engine sounds in the distance, growing closer until the bike appears at the end of the street. The rider's wearing a leather jacket with embroidered wings on the back. He comes to a stop curbside of Rick's house.

"Another adoring fan," Negan says.

The rider dismounts the bike and takes off his helmet. He has long, greasy brown hair and a scowl that seems etched onto his face. He heads up the walkway. "Rick."

"Daryl?"

"Beth here?" Daryl asks, his boots thumping on the porch stairs.

"She's inside. I didn't think you'd come."

Daryl shrugs. "Glad you're not dead."

A touching sentiment.

Daryl's eyeing Negan like he's trying to figure out if he's seen him before.

Negan gives him a wide grin. "Hi, I'm Negan." This doesn't ring any bells for Daryl, but Negan didn't think it would anyway. "Currently doin' Rick."

Negan doesn't have to look at Rick to know he's blushing.

Daryl huffs a noise that might be a laugh before heading inside.

"Great conversationalist, ain't he?" Negan says, turning back to Rick, whose cheeks are still slightly flushed.

"Me and Shane arrested his brother." Like that's the only way Rick could explain their acquaintance.

"And he still came to your party?"

"He's _currently doin'_ Beth," Rick says, mocking Negan's choice of words.

"Shit, you need GPS to follow the sex lives of this town." Negan steals a sip from Rick's drink. It's actually pretty good. "Wait, Beth? Really?" Rick nods. "Looks like you're not the only blue-eyed innocent to fall for a bad boy, huh?"

Rick smiles at him and takes back his glass.

Negan sighs, contented, but an errant worry has been gnawing at the back of his mind since Rick woke up. "Are we just not gonna talk about you goin' back to work?" Negan loves the domesticity of their lives together, of cooking dinner and reading to Judith and helping Carl with homework and being with the man he loves. And he wants it all to last, to never again be interrupted by tragedy or grief. He doesn't think that kind of steady comfort is compatible with Rick's line of work.

"Sick of me already?" Rick jokes, but he knows what Negan's asking. "I'm gonna take some time off to think things over. My gut tells me I should hang it up, but I don't know if that's a smart decision or one I'm making just 'cause I'm scared."

"As long as you're thinking about it. We'll figure something out. That's what we do."

Rick nods and moves to get up, but Negan stops him with gentle hands.

"Wait. Just sit with me a little while, okay?"

Rick seems to hear the thread of neediness in Negan's voice, because he settles back into his chair to sit with him. Negan reaches out and takes Rick's hand in his own. Their fingers entwine perfectly. Rick doesn't pull away or try to hide their interlocked hands. They sit there on the porch, watching the sun begin to set as long, gauzy fingers of clouds stretch out across the pinked sky.

Negan wants to melt into this moment and live in it forever. He knows deep in his soul that he belongs here with Rick and Carl and Judith and the open-hearted people in this town who have accepted him as their own.

He takes a deep breath of the lazy evening air and tries to make this moment last a little longer.


End file.
